Captivated
by michellemybelle25
Summary: Beginning after Erik first takes Christine away, she still believes in angels, and he still has hope. But as hope fades, the darkness takes control.
1. Chapter 1

All right, people! I know we've been patiently awaiting this story for…ah, about a year now, and you all know that I've been VERY hesitant to even consider posting it. So let's just make it clear from point one: this story is not for everyone. It is very dark, so if you don't like dark stories, this probably isn't for you. Since I'm having an anxiety issue just to post and let you guys see something that is this intense from me, I thought it was best to post it in its entirety and not drag out posting chapter by chapter. I think it gives a better picture that way, and hopefully, it will show that there are many layers to this story and that every word written has a purpose. Please no harsh or cruel reviews. It's taken me a lot to let you guys read this, and I'd rather not be torn apart for it.

In lighter news, I will be in Colorado performing next week and selling and signing "Opera Macabre", "The Devil's Galley", and my Phantom collection of stories, more information on my website. Anyone in the vicinity, please come and see me! I'm so excited because I have a lifelong quest to be in every American Girl store in the US, and there is one in Denver. Yay! Also, now posted on my website and Facebook is the cover for book 2 of my angel series, "The Pirouettes That Angels Spin", out this fall! It's LOVELY! Take a look at it if you get a chance! :)

AND I just finished writing my 27th novel, which is a new and exhilarating Phantom story for all of you who have been asking for something LONG! Coming to posts near you this fall!

Onto the story!

SUMMARY: Beginning after Erik first takes Christine away, she still believes in angels, and he still has hope. But as hope fades, the darkness takes control.

"Captivated"

Christine awoke from a delicious dream and found herself blissfully lost in another. This couldn't be reality, not when reality tended to be cold and dull, usually taking, never giving. But even as the final remnants of sleep let her free of their bindings, the images around her did not transform into those of her empty apartment with its peeling paint and dingy rug. No, they stayed brilliant and shiny, more than she felt worthy to have. Perhaps it _was_ heaven, for had she not begged her darling angel to take her away the night before?

It equally felt like a dream to recall the details. Her angel finally coming to her, stealing her away, holding her in his strong arms… A smile played on her lips as she sat up beneath the ruffled, pink canopy of her plush bed and considered that this was _his_ home. She felt like a princess from a fairytale, suddenly granted her heart's every desire and en route to the happily ever after that was always attached. Even if her gallant prince was an angel and not a mortal man, the ending had to be the same, for she would accept no other.

With an unceasing grin that danced along her face, she rose from the bed and glided across the soft carpet to the carved, whitewood armoire. Everything about this place felt as if it held an air of magic, some unearthly secret to make it uniquely special. The previous night she had only been granted a general perusal; today she longed to fully take in every fine nuance, to explore her new home and hope to gain an even deeper understanding of her angel.

Her angel…, her very own immortal prince… Every memory of him felt slightly fuzzy at its edges, but his voice, that beautiful, lyrical timbre had been singing in her head all night, drawing her in as it always did and wrapping her in a gloriousness far beyond the lackluster world. How she ached to be in his presence again! When he had been only the bodiless voice for so long, to touch him, to feel arms and torso against her, to see those mesmerizing blue and green eyes upon hers, such things were a bliss she knew she could not live without!

Still lost in the fantasy, she opened the doors of the armoire and exposed a rainbow of color. Had she ever had so many gowns to choose from? And all more elaborate than what she was accustomed to. She had been overwhelmed the night before to glimpse their rich fabrics while seeking a nightdress. Now to have the choice of which to select and wear! It was nearly too much! …And all for her. Every gown seemed tailored for _her_ shape, _her _body and size, more gifts from her beloved angel. …She felt undeserving.

Deciding on pale petal pink, she collected the beautiful gown and necessary underclothes, all white silk, and carried them to her adjoining bathchamber. Marble tile, a large, iron-footed tub, gold-plated mirrors at every angle…, it was extraordinary when she had only known the shared bathroom of her apartment building, one that had a dozen people always vying for it and no hot water left. It enhanced her princess fantasy, and as she skipped to the tub to run the water for a bath, she giggled her delight, unable to contain and trap it within when it consumed in elation.

A princess in a fairytale… Yes, but what princess had a prince constantly watching from the shadows, eyeing her with blatant lust from the opposite side of a mirror as she ignorantly undressed?

Mirrors, mirrors, always mirrors. It was a mirror that allowed him to watch from her dressing room, to spy on her day-to-day life as if it was another opera libretto enacted for his enjoyment. Now mirrors again, a large one in her bedroom and one in the bathroom that kept him the silent observer. From their windows, he had kept vigil as she slept like a peaceful child, the guardian angel… Only what angel lusted with a heat to sear through skin and bone? The mirror he gazed through gave an improper view that stirred the blood in his veins to something like a fever. Dear Lord, the beauty and the sheer innocence of her… A child and a woman combined in one and sent to drive him to insanity…

On the opposite side of the glass, Christine finished undressing, her gentle curves on display for her unknown audience, and as she stepped into a tub full of heated water and bubbles, Erik leaned close to the glass, his palms pressed to the surface. For too long, he had been outside looking in, wanting and needing more; last night had been a first taste, one he could not cleanse from his system, as addictive as a drug and far more dangerous. He had to wonder if ordinary people felt desire this potent or this dark at its essence. Or was it solely due to a lifetime spent denying and burying any hint of it? Perhaps that explained why it suffocated and streamed out of him at every turn, …all ignited by one girl.

Erik ran searing eyes over his obsession, …Christine. Ever since he had first seen her, she had become an absolute disease in his blood, a poison meant to consume him. He watched her raise one perfectly formed arm from the water's cocoon and bring a soaped sponge up its length to a smooth shoulder, humming all the while with that full, rich voice that had first caught his attention. His little protégée. It had been an added fortune that the girl attached to those beautiful tones had been equally as beautiful. His fervent stare was caught by the pink-tipped roundness of her breasts peeking above the water's surface, as flawless and perfect as the rest of her. How he ached to hold their weight in his palms, to swallow their peaks in kisses! No matter that his mouth was misshapen and deformed. In his fantasies, she never cared about such things. She wanted him, and that was enough to make even his ugly features appealing.

Oh, Christine… His body throbbed with need, aching for release, but he dared not indulge himself as he watched her, knowing it wasn't what he really wanted. No, he wanted flesh pressed to his, softness, wetness, _her_. His own hand seemed juvenile and pointless in comparison.

On the other side of the mirror, Christine rose from her bath, water shining along her creamy skin and dripping down her curves. Desire begged him to lick every drop from her body, to cover her in his mouth and tongue, lose himself in her. He felt sickened with the longing, a slave to it in a way he had never permitted anything to overpower him. An angel, he was supposed to be an angel! What would his innocent little Christine think if she knew that her seeming heavenly angel was currently lost in erotic fantasies of the perverse things he wanted to do to her virginal body? And yet he had no control, not until she was clothed and concealed and wandering back into her bedroom with her sweet humming to precede her.

Mercifully, Erik lingered where he was, desperate for calm before he glimpsed her again. He feared losing control when next in her presence. This was dangerous; it was playing with fire in bare hands. His one saving grace was the valid point that this was far more than lust; he _loved_ her.

It was so new to him, so incredibly optimistic. It gave him a reason in a life that had been directionless for too long. Before he had given up his self-imposed solitude, he had been sure he would die in his crypt-like home alone with no one to care or mourn his loss, and life's pleasures were something he was simply not meant to know. Now…now he wanted more.

With a better grip on desire's leash, he strode from one secret window to the other, seeking her out with urgent eyes as she curiously wandered her bedroom, grazing the random things he had so carefully placed here and there for her enjoyment. He had wanted everything to be perfect when he had set up the room, buying all sorts of trinkets, anything he thought would make her smile, and he was pleased to see exactly that effect on full, pink lips as she sprayed an expensive perfume and took a whiff of its lavender and vanilla fragrance. He could remember a time during her lessons when she had confided in him the sort of life she had lived with her father: poor, without any sort of elegant belongings, and he had vowed to himself that day that she would never know such an existence again. He wanted to spoil her. His humble, little songbird, so cautious in every movement as she set the bottle back into place and moved to the next with wide, excited blue eyes.

It was almost too much to believe she was real, that she was in his home after so long spent imagining that very thing. She was not the mirage of a lonely brain and would not vanish away; she was living, breathing flesh and heart and soul beneath.

For only a moment more did he keep his silent observation, fighting an urge to go to her. But no, that pleasure would come soon enough. He was confident that she would find the note he had left near her bed. It promised that he would join her for supper and bid her to make herself comfortable in his home.

The supper he was planning would be monumental. He intended to reveal his true mortal makeup, to explain why he had lied, to beg forgiveness and vow his eternal love and devotion. In his head, he saw it acted out to perfection with an ending he yearned to be his. Hopefully, luck would be on his side and grant it.

With one last glimpse of her to tied him over, he quickly left his small, hidden room and the house altogether, thinking of buying her something as a sign of his adoration. Something beautiful…just like her.

In her room, Christine never heard him leave, never knew any presence had been spying on her as she lifted the note from her angel in hands so laden with her delight that they shook. The tips of her fingers trailed across his pen strokes as if she were touching him instead. Supper…, she could hardly endure her anticipation!

* * *

A dead body looked nothing like a sleeping, _living_ person; that had been Christine's first thought before reality had the chance to catch up to the scene and settle in. Living people looked…_alive_. She had recognized this immediately as a dead body, empty, lacking the spark that maybe was considered the soul.

…And that had been hours ago, plenty of time in between for the shock to dull its razor edges and become only the truth, staring blatantly from the eyes of a dead man. Piece by piece, the puzzle had come together, every lie and deceit, every manipulation, and every time she had naively believed. An angel…, it seemed pathetic to fathom such a title now. Common sense should have told her how farfetched the concept truly was. Perhaps it had, and she had turned a blind eye, preferring the lie to the truth that she was actually forgotten and alone. Could she be blamed for choosing the pleasant alternative instead, one brimming over with images of gold-trimmed, white wings and the clouded majesty of heaven? Well, she was certainly being punished for her folly!

Where was she…? She still had no concrete answer. The nearest she had come to guess was some sort of prison or…torture chamber, but did such places exist? She had heard of rooms built specifically to murder, to drive a victim to insanity, to inflict pain, but they were always in the context of fictional stories. A version in real-life would have been inhumane. …It would be the product of a madman. Dear God, what had she gotten herself into?

Angel, …no, he was the devil. Opera Ghost and phantom, murderer. Meg had warned her to stay on her guard, not to trust anyone, but she had neglected every word, so certain that she knew every facet of her heavenly angel. What a fool she had been! And now if she died here in this place of agony, she had no one to blame but herself. Torture chamber, room of death, and trapped far away from aid in the dragon's lair…

With time's slow passage and tormented thoughts, she found herself praying for escape and imagining rescue, only to have every fantasy fall to the bitter reality that she would likely die in this room. She wasn't supposed to be here. No, it had been purely an accident that she had stumbled upon it in her exploration of the house and managed to trap herself inside. She had expected another bedroom, another music room perhaps, never considering that there was a reason the door was concealed, almost overlooked as it blended with the wall. She would have argued her mistake and begged forgiveness for her intrusion when he returned, …had she not stumbled upon the dead body of a random missing stagehand she recognized from the opera.

It was funny to consider that had the body been removed, evidence gone, she would have never suspected anything odd and continued in the rose-hued daze of childish innocence. She would have jumped with anticipation at the sound of her angel returning and would have clung to his every word, every movement, every look like a lovesick schoolgirl. Perhaps the mask should have given him away, but his mesmerizing voice and dazing spell had made it blend in the background, and it was only recalled now as she fought for her memories. …Mask, Opera Ghost, and she had placed herself in his bloodstained clutches willingly!

Her eyes scanned the small quarters again in anxious unease. Not much larger than a closet and bearing little light to see by. What she could decipher were pipes and nozzles sticking out of stone walls; the morbid part of her wondered what substance they exuded when ignited. Gas? Fire? Poison? Her wayward mind took her down every path and formed gratuitous scenes of her own demise. She had not perused the body beside her to find out how he had met his end, but she glimpsed no blood, no telltale injury. Perhaps death in a torture chamber was more peaceful than first perceived…

Footsteps, she heard their approach before the click of the door being opened from the other side, and the breath fled her in a wave of terror. Oh God, …he was back…

Erik's eyes sought her out immediately as the door opened with a resounding, ominous creak. It amused him that she made no attempt to hide, pointless as it would have been. No, she was a small shape, huddled to the floor beside the remnants of an interfering stagehand. Pink skirts of knees drawn tight to her chest, large, accusing blue eyes rimmed in trepidation, dried tear paths down paled cheeks, loose, dark curls like a curtain all around her. She was the very image of the child he often thought her to be beneath womanly graces. …Child, child no longer.

"What are you doing in this room?" he demanded, feverishly raking another blazing gaze over her.

Words seemed to flee her lips when in the path of such a growing inferno; it flared menacingly and only brightened and stole more of her inaccurate claim of angel. Angel…, no, he was no angel.

"You ignorant fool," he spat furiously, and before she could ascertain his intentions, he was standing mere inches from her, catching her arm in a viselike hold and dragging her to her feet without care to gentleness. "You've ruined everything!"

Christine stared at him as if she'd never seen him before. …Hadn't she? No, not this man; this man was a complete stranger to her. His eyes, those eyes she had fantasized, recalling the awe that had plagued them the previous night; now they were laden with bitter resentment, hating her as much as they had once seemed to glorify her.

…And the mask. Her stare held and locked on its guarding presence. Beneath it, the features were supposedly mangled; a horror was what the other ballerinas had called it in their gossiping tales of the Opera Ghost. …A horror… Before this, she would have giggled with them and insisted they exaggerated, but now with the body of a dead man too close to her side, horror was suddenly reality.

Erik knew no surprise that she was fixated on the mask. Oh, weren't they all? It was the oddity of it, the unknown answers that lay beneath its protective confines. They were as intrigued by the mask as disconcerted. …But she…she was supposed to have been different. Damn her!

Keeping an unbreakable hold on her arm, he brought his free hand to the mask's edge. "So curious," he almost purred, malice dripping from golden tones. "Always so damn curious… And how long would it have been until you performed this act on your own? Stripped me of my mask without a care? I might as well retain some semblance of dignity and save myself the shame of further degradation at your hands. Fill in the blanks on my own terms, if you will. You want to see the monster, do you? The visage of the devil himself? The terror in the night?"

His fingers were uncharacteristically clumsy in their attempt, but finally, he pried the mask free and ripped it from his features, putting himself on display in all his grotesque majesty.

A gasp tore from Christine's lungs, her eyes widening and body violently trembling in his unyielding hold. Dear God… No, she was suddenly sure God wasn't listening to her anymore, not when she was trapped with the devil. …That face. It was more dead than alive, a corpse, half a skeleton's head. The skin was thin, translucent at best, exposing bone beneath and a sunken eye socket housing what she had once considered a sparkling emerald in an absurdly romanticized version of the same face. No nose could be hinted at, only two holes through which harsh breaths were passing, loud as her own terrified gulps of air and creating the only sounds in a stagnant room.

Her continuously shifting eyes landed on his mouth. It should have been perfection; it encompassed the most beautiful voice she had ever heard. A bitter twist of irony then that those lips through which it flowed were so vibrantly misshapen. The upper swelled disturbingly on one side, the bottom not much better, and if he would have never spoken again, never another word from those golden cords, she would have believed it a trick of her mind, that the voice could not be that beautiful or that unearthly. But his next utterance was cruelly just as ethereal as an angel's despite the mixture of pain and rage lacing it.

"Where are your screams?" he demanded, seeming aloof to her horrified examination. "And the tears? The pleadings for your life and for the repulsive freak to keep his hands off you? …I'm waiting. I would wager that even the most heinous of insults sound like something I'd want to live up to when they are on your lips. Go on then. Don't deny me of a single one when I am already eager to hear them. Tell me how disgusting I am, how ugly. Well? Don't try to be polite. We'd both knew it to be a lie. Come on, Christine. Insult me. Degrade me with your words. Have a little more of a backbone than I've given you credit for. At least give me something worth killing for, a reason to strangle that beautiful neck of yours."

But she couldn't. Perhaps it was the shock from too many dreams shattered at once like bubbles being popped out of existence, or perhaps it was an inability to breathe beyond gasps that only intensified with his words. Because the image before her of a speaking corpse, began to blur at its corners, and then the world was spinning… Or she was spinning? Perhaps he was killing her already. And she couldn't even find the will to protest as the darkness came and took her away, stealing the face of the devil. …Maybe God hadn't forgotten her after all…

It was with a degree of awkwardness that Erik caught her in his arms as she fainted. He certainly had not expected such a reaction, but as abruptly as he had wanted to hurt her as brutally as she had hurt him, his anger faded to a terrified need to hold on to her. How could anger survive when she was a bundle of warm softness, limp limbs, and disheveled, silken curls in his arms? He wanted to rescue her from any evil. …Pity that he himself _was_ the evil.

This was different than the way he had held her the previous night. Then hope had been alive and thriving as an ever-present light in the background. Now it had dimmed and nearly gone out, suffocating every sugarcoated fantasy to its untimely demise. She didn't love him and never would. She'd never be the wife he had envisioned, the one who would adore him in spite of his scars. He had sustained himself on that fantasy, living with the determination that it must come to pass. And now…what were his options? Kill her and then himself because he would have no will to go on without her? Let her live and release her only to see her run from him like the plague and never return? Or…? Or… She wouldn't love him; that much was a certainty, but he could love her. Not in the way he'd planned, of course, but at least he'd have something. …And it was better than nothing at all…

* * *

Christine awoke from a horrendous nightmare in the pink, fairytale bedroom of an underground tomb. …Nightmare, if only it had been. And then from one nightmare to the next. Her heart raced in her chest with realization's arrival. She was not only laying in her canopy bed; she was tied to it, caught around her thin wrists and ankles and bound to the bedposts with little room to move and no chance of escape. The breath halted in her chest, her entire frame starting to shake of its own accord. And then her horror intensified as she noticed that she was clothed in only her silk, white underclothes, her pink gown a wrinkled mess of fabric on the floor. …Dear God, he had undressed her and bound her to the bed, …and she had little doubt what that meant.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than her door opened, and her captor, masked and concealed yet again, strode into the room, his eyes immediately seeking hers. He was arrogantly poised as if his countenance had never been shaken, and between his hands, he idly twisted a sharp dagger, its blade glinting silver in deceptively gentle firelight. Her frantic gaze moved between the weapon and his mismatched eyes, but the dagger's threat was never stated, his stare apathetic and slightly inquisitive.

"Surprised you're still alive," he said flatly as he halted his approach a fair distance from her bedside. "You must have assumed I would have killed you already… You're probably wishing I had. And I can't blame you for that."

Erik's emotionless act was so convincing that he almost believed it himself, almost believed that he didn't care about her, that he would simply take what he wanted as if she were just another of the many faceless who had harmed him in his life. But then he glimpsed the shimmer of tears over blue eyes and had to restrain himself from falling to gentleness instead. She wouldn't want his comfort anyway. No, because monsters were unfeeling, right? Murderers could not care and certainly could not expect compassion or love. No, murdering freaks must be denied such things.

"It wasn't supposed to happen this way." His guilt justified for him despite his wish to bury it, and just as quickly as it was revealed, he hid it again and reapplied his malicious coldness as his eyes raked over her, lingering over the feminine silhouette her underclothes accentuated.

"I'm not going to pretend with you," he insisted firmly. "You know what I want. I'm sure it is obvious. And it may not be what I dreamed, but this will have to do. I mourn the loss, but… This is in my character, isn't it? I'm the murdering Opera Ghost; I take what I want with no care to anyone or anything. This is my expected role, and I'll play it to perfection."

Closing the lingering gap so that he loomed like a shadow and gazed desirously down at her, he bid, "How shall it be? Shall I threaten you then? Give you further reason to hate me before I violate you? I'm not certain my grotesque appearance is enough. You must not only be disgusted by me; you must abhor me as well. I'm the opera demon, and I'm going to steal your virginity. Hate me for it, Christine. Please hate me; I beg it of you. If I can't have your love, then all I want is hatred, …hatred to fuel the crime."

He knew she couldn't understand; after all, the Opera Ghost was a rapist, wasn't he? It should have been easy to follow through with it in her eyes. She didn't know that for all his soul-damning crimes, he had never raped a woman, never even _touched_ a woman. And to consider raping Christine, the only woman he'd ever loved… He needed her to hate him, but one look in her tear-filled blue eyes showed fear and nothing else. And dear Lord, did it shake his determination!

With a fierce growl, Erik leaned close and set the flat coldness of the blade to one soft, pale cheek, and he watched with a mixture of satisfaction and self-loathing to see her shrink and recoil as much as she could. "So beautiful," he breathed as the smallest whimper escaped her. "So very beautiful. Have you any idea how long I have envisioned this? I've wanted you as I've never wanted anything in my life. It's…consuming, prevailing over sanity. My God, and to have you laid here to my every whim…"

Christine silently sobbed, tears sliding from blue eyes and striking the smooth luster of the blade on their path. Her entire body shook, her eyes shifting from his mask to the dagger and back again as he guided it in a slow, feather-light trek along her jaw and traced the tip down the side of her throat, never causing damage yet never touching with hands.

Without a word or the flaring apology on the back of his tongue, he gripped the neckline of her chemise in one hand and viciously yanked the dagger through its center, his eyes riveted to its parting but his ears concentrating on the small cry she gave in protest. His heart ached because she was crying and he was the cause, but he couldn't make himself stop. It was far too late for that. He had to love her, and he had no other way to show it.

Erik's stare devoured the fullness of her breasts before he forced himself to finish with his task, making long slices down the center of her petticoat and pantaloons and only half-aware of white silk trapped by tied arms and legs. It didn't matter; he wasn't going to untie her, and so he let her underclothes hang in tattered remnants from futile limbs.

Goosebumps rose and layered the surface of her skin; he watched them erupt, intrigued by their inherent conception, as mesmerizing as the tears that continued to pass seamlessly from the corners of her eyes.

If she had cared to take note beyond her fear, she would have noticed that he wasn't breathing. Breathing seemed the most mundane thing to remember, not with such exquisite perfection before him. Admiring from afar was trivial, a blurry version of reality. It was nothing compared to silken, creamy flesh laid out at his fingertips. His body responded in violent waves of desire, shaking his stability as he throbbed with the ache. …But then he met her blue stare, and the accusation there twisted in his gut and pierced through everything else. Any illusion he wanted and any fantasy he yearned to act out shattered to broken shards.

"Damn you," he suddenly hissed, and she cringed as if awaiting the backlash of his rage. But instead, a better idea came to mind, and he suddenly stalked to her armoire and jerked open its doors with a force so great that they practically tore from their hinges. He wouldn't let her catch sight of what he was doing, even as she craned her neck from the bed to try and glimpse. Not until he ventured back to her side in calculated steps, and then he let her see the dark, cashmere scarf he clutched in his fisted hands.

Erik did not explain, knowing he wasn't entitled to it. Instead, setting his dagger aside, he bent over her, not yet allowing himself to dwell on her beauty. No, not with those eyes on him. Not with their constant blame. Pulling the scarf taut between his hands, he stretched it like a blindfold over her eyes, knotting it behind her head as she gave a cry of discontent.

"Sshh," he crooned, instinctively gentle and granting one more long look to her face without those eyes to reward him with his guilt, he reverted his focus to her body. And he was lost, willingly so, and he knew it. It became no longer about raping her; the idea fled him with the realization that in spite of everything including her disgust, this was the woman he loved.

Christine's tears wetted the material of the scarf. She could only see blackness, but she heard his uneven breaths beside her and knew he was looking at her as if his eyes made haphazard caresses as tangible as fingers. A flush passed beneath goosebumps, pink and ashamed to know he desired her, to have only a vague idea of what was to come. Her only knowledge of intimacies was based in gossip backstage at the opera, incomplete details at best. Part of her wanted to beg him to explain first, even if his intent was unchanged. Perhaps if she knew, she would be less afraid. …Perhaps if this was her angel and not the Opera Ghost…

All thought fled her as one cold fingertip made a slow, languid path across her collarbone. She shuddered, and a straggled cry escaped as that finger grazed lower until it found her breast.

Erik was relieved that her vision was stolen so that she did not see how his hand trembled. He was supposed to be the one in control. If she only knew that it was her body controlling him, her warmth and softness, her perfection. He adored this woman! He had lost her already, and if this were all he was going to have, it would be his fantasy brought to life, and he would please her as he yearned to. Please her, …and to do so, he would have to remove his mask. She couldn't see his face; the blindfold would prevent that, and he could pretend that she wasn't disgusted.

And yet he shook as his hand lifted to his mask and hesitantly stole its protection. Scars stung as they hit the air, sensitive and afraid in a way he longed not to show as he reminded himself that she couldn't see. And he could love her through shadows.

One finger encircled her nipple, its pad teased by soft skin and a racing heartbeat beneath. She was a mass of shaking limbs and tears, and yet he savored a small gasp set free as his fingertip passed the pink peak and enticed it to harden. Oh God, she was perfection!

With an uncontained moan, he bent and took that nipple between his misshapen lips, feeling her tense and arch beneath him. In his mind, he played assurances. No, no, she couldn't see; this wasn't horror presenting itself beneath an unacceptable mouth. It was desire; it _must be_ desire.

Gentle and hungry, Erik sucked one flawless breast, burning through his veins with every motion. The tip of his tongue teased while fingertips imitated on its match, growing more fevered by the second. She writhed, cries escaping lips that could not stay pursed, but he never heard a word to cease, a begging for mercy, _anything_ to say stop. And he knew he had won.

His mouth was busy, so his fingers moved ahead, grazing a path along her flat stomach, delicate enough to raise more goosebumps. Onward, and it thrilled him that her legs were intuitively parted, inviting without knowing it. He took it as concession and brushed a fingertip along her silken folds.

Christine stiffened, fear appearing in a violent burst. It destroyed passion's pleasant haze and only intensified as that probing finger slid within. She cried out and for the first time, gave struggle, jolting against bindings that would not give. But he was undeterred and ran his fingers along her length, moaning against her breast.

"Dear God," he huskily breathed between fevered kisses, and she shuddered to hear that beautiful voice so twisted with longing. "You want, Christine; you're so wet… Fear is inconsequential when your body knows who it belongs to. It opens and welcomes me, made for my touch alone. …I've never had such a gift."

The tenderness in his words touched something in her heart, something that had been sparked to life for a nonexistent angel. She could almost pretend without sight to betray her that this _was_ her angel, coaxing her to passion for the first time, adoring her as much as he wanted more. And that made her body's response guiltless and acceptable. She loved her angel; if this was her angel, love was an excuse for them both.

All at once, he lifted off the bed and left her cold and aching, her body throbbing its disappointment, but she stifled a beseeching behind a bit lip and refused to mutter a single word. She could feel his eyes upon her, searing her again in that mismatched stare and caressing even more intimately than fingers. Eyes, and then suddenly, the mattress shifted with added weight, and before she could guess his intentions, urgent hands parted her legs wide. She yearned to break free, terrified what he would do and blushing shame to be so exposed. But to her astonishment, a kiss was placed and held to her womanhood, and it was the most unexpected and most intimate shock that she went rigid and allowed without protest.

Erik shivered with delight, overcome as voices in his head condemned his violation. It _must be_ a sin greater than any other to place his misshapen mouth upon something so glorious, so exquisite, so beautiful. For the first time, genuine regret washed through him and an irrational fear that a mouth so ugly must tarnish this most sacred part of her, leave traces of contamination behind because he was so unworthy. But her scent and her softness, the wetness that said she ached, such things plucked guilt out of his hands and bid him to make it something beautiful instead. Yes, …pleasure was beautiful.

With a groan of surrender, he loosed his eager tongue to taste her and savored her uninhibited cry. He heard no refusal or blame, only overwhelming desire. Teasing his tastebuds, he lapped at her womanhood, unsure but learning from her every instinctual response. Her cries were urgent, her hips arching off the mattress, and he refused to end his endeavors, moving his tongue faster, circling the spot that made her jolt with contact.

His eyes watched her, gazing in adoration at the expanses of creamy flesh spread to his whim. He had to touch; it felt imperative, and one hand roamed back up to her wanton nipple, pinching its peak. She cried out, raw and desperate, fringed in a sob with pleasure's arrival as her body went stiff and shuddered. Pleasure, beauty, and he prolonged its aftermath, stroking languidly with the tip of his tongue.

From bliss to despair. Her eyes were stolen, but still, they haunted as guilt found a new way free. Tears soaked grey cashmere, a few slipping from its edge to smear her cheeks. Their shimmer cut into him like a knife, and with a muttered curse, he jerked away, leaping to his feet and hiding his face with his mask once again. Dear God, her flavor still lingered on his tongue as temptation! And how he ached without fulfillment! But desire suddenly felt like a death sentence.

With a growl so fierce that she gasped, he tore at her bindings, ripping them apart as her limbs dropped to the mattress. Immediately, she curled into herself, covering her body with the tattered remnants of her underclothes even before she removed the blindfold and found his rage-filled features with terrified eyes.

Christine couldn't catch her breath, tears cascading in currents down her face as she hugged her body and hid as much as she could beneath shredded silk. How could she have possibly forgotten in the midst of passion that _this_ was the creature touching her without her consent? This was no angel; this was a man, …a murderer and monster, and she hated him as much for his violation as the ecstasy he'd given. It was just as much a manipulation.

Any tenderness she had seen in traces was gone as he regarded her coldly and spat, "You could have been a queen in this hell; well, now you are a prisoner. Don't waste your time seeking a way out. This is your punishment for being a deceptive, heartless little chit. There is no escape for the unwanted, Christine, and the likes of you and I are meant to suffer in this crypt alone. …You ruined everything." It was the only lapse in a malevolent temperament, one crack to show damage within before he turned bitter again. "You are _mine_. Make no mistake about it, and you will either be a willing slave or a dead body. What is more blood on my hands? I care not which fate you choose."

She knew he was lying, but she could not speak a word against him with tears clogging the back of her throat. Better to stay silent if it meant keeping her life. And yet what life would this be? A prisoner…, she had once held dreams of angels, of a life on the stage, of a future filled with love. This was no life at all.

For one last moment, he held her stare, and then so abruptly that she jumped, he abandoned her, charging out of the room with a slammed door in his wake. Her attuned ear did not miss the click of a lock before tears overwhelmed and drowned her in their sob. A prisoner, her body left to the mercy of a murderer who had spent months deceiving her into fairytales. She felt like a fool, cursing her naïveté. She had put _herself_ in this place, chasing dreams with never a doubt or question. An angel…, she was ignorant to have believed such a sugarcoated illusion. …And now it was shattered, and she had nothing…

Erik watched her from behind another mirror, crying the same tears and stifling sobs behind a clenched fist. Dear Lord, his skin still smelled of her, her taste tingling his lips; he felt as much a prisoner as she was, a prisoner to her innocence and beauty, to a heart he knew he had lost any chance to possess. He mourned broken dreams and suffered the undulled edge of lust, throbbing with its ache through his body. He had touched her! He had taken liberties as if they were his! Why was there such self-loathing churning through his veins? It made wanting seem a sin. He hadn't taken her, hadn't stolen her virginity, and yet he felt just as ashamed. Not even the knowledge that he had been gentle and had given her pleasure was enough to make it less a damning act. …And to watch her cry, …sob as if her life were over… He truly was a monster.

His fingertips grazed the glass between them, abhorring smooth and cold when he'd learned what soft and warm felt like. Nothing would ever suffice; their pads craved heaven. And despite every ugly detail in between, he knew this was just the beginning for them. He was convicted; he was not going to lose.


	2. Chapter 2

Christine only slept when exhaustion became too powerful to fight. Wrapped in bundles of blankets and tucked tightly in, she dreamt of darkness overcoming her, radiating through her veins inside and out until she was swallowed whole. And open eyes gave no relief as the nightmare continued on.

Should she have taken it with horror to find a tray of food set on the bedside table? It said that he'd been there as she slept, and yet he hadn't touched her, hadn't woken her, hadn't stolen more. He'd only brought her something to eat. Ah yes, to feed his prisoner and make certain she did not starve and die before he was through with her.

Christine longed to deny even a single morsel, but her stomach tightened and growled, insisting starvation would be an unpleasant and lengthy death. It wasn't the answer, and that thought convinced her to break off small bites with awkward fingers.

As she nervously chewed, she pondered her captor. The Opera Ghost, that fact was obvious and unavoidable. He'd told her nothing, not even a name, nothing to make him seem more a man and less a monster. What he'd done…, she knew it was wrong. Every fiber of sense within her insisted it, but he hadn't hurt her. He'd been so tender, and that was the one unfitting piece to the puzzle. Physical intimacy was mostly a mystery, and yet she was doubtless that there was more, something beyond the touches and kisses he'd given. …There must be. What he'd done had been for her alone. It was only natural to assume there would be something for his benefit, but he had not forced anything else upon her. No, …he'd been _tender_!

She refused to be a fool where he was concerned again. It was logical to assume he would expect such luxuries and take them even if she denied him. As he had said, she was _his_, and he was a murderer who wouldn't hesitate to prove true to the title. Her only salvation came with a freedom she wasn't sure she could gain.

Her captor did not return as hour after hour dragged onward. Shaking down every limb, Christine locked herself in the bathroom and quivered to disrobe and take a hot bath. She wondered if he would take it as a misstep, punish her for locking him out in this mediocre bout of rebellion. Such thoughts left her on edge as she climbed into the tub and let the heated water envelop her in its embrace.

Everything felt…changed. How often had she seen her body in every detail and facet, and yet…it no longer felt like _hers_ alone. It was as if its secrets had been unlocked and put equally in the care of the Opera Ghost. Anxious eyes skirted creamy skin and fixed on her breasts. She hadn't seen his hands upon them or the kisses his lips had granted, so all she had were the pictures in her mind, made-up illusions that did not exist. She could fantasize the angel she'd once believed in, the most beautiful creature in creation, adoring her like a sacred idol. An angel's mouth taking her nipple, an angel's mouth at her most intimate places… The thought made the breath skip in her lungs and flutter out with a silent sigh.

He'd touched her, and she felt _alive_. How terrifying when reality peeked in and insisted the true sin buried beneath a blindfold! A _murderer_ had touched her and brought her a pleasure so powerful that it frightened her! And she'd never refused or fought, never struggled, not even muttered a valid denial. She'd allowed, and she'd wanted, …and she wanted more.

Disgusted with her mind's betrayal, she hurried from the tub and dressed in modest layers, apprehensive and nervous, unable to keep still. What would he expect when he came to her? Would she find the will to fight this time, or would she acquiesce again? …Why was he taking so long to return?

Christine was pacing with restless thoughts when she finally heard the click of the lock. Halting mid-step, she faced the door with wide eyes, shivering already from head to toe and feeling vulnerable despite barriers to skin. She felt exposed.

His entrance held a strange hesitation she had not expected. No arrogant, confident stride. No poise to proclaim himself in control. He seemed as anxious as she was, and that once again threw her from concrete thoughts. A monster, the Opera Ghost with his disfigured face and murdering hands, yet why did he have to look at her like that? With his heart in his eyes? Did he even realize that he was so transparent? She fixated on the emotions there, certain that walls would come any minute and bar them away.

"Oh…" The smallest sound escaped his lips as eyes caressed her and locked on one detail, and two determined strides brought him close. She recoiled, curling back as his hand reached for her and caught her bare forearm, dragging her forward.

She prepared for aggression and the same brutality already established by those hands, but to her shock, the emotions in his gaze only softened further still until tears touched the corners.

"I didn't mean to… Christine, I'm sorry."

At first thought, her mind conjured memories of violating lips and fingers, but no. Such indiscretions were not the root of his apology. Her attention landed on what he was sorry for. Her bell sleeves with lace trim flared just below her elbows and exposed the curves of her forearms, and at her wrists were dull bruises where they had been tied to bedposts, evidence of sin.

She tried to snatch her arm away, but his grip tightened to keep her as his free hand grazed an idle caress to the damage.

"Everything I touch has scars left behind. I truly am a poison," he somberly stated with one last long touch to her bruises. So suddenly that she shuddered, he let her go and changed demeanors, as if despair fueled a need to destroy, and anger was easier to endure than regret. "It is your choice how this is played. Will I need to restrain you again, or do you now understand the rules of engagement? You are not allowed to deny me."

Christine could not stop shaking, longing to beg for the return of the man who had first entered the room, one who showed such longing and such compassion. But he was gone, and she was left with base desires instead and anger that she was their cause.

Stalking to the bedside table, he retrieved the scarf he had used for their last encounter, pulling it taut between his hands, and she bit back protests. No. Perhaps it was better this way. Take him from her sight and let fantasy reign. Let it be an angel as her companion and not a monster.

His mismatched stare held hers as he returned, scarf at the ready, but he hesitated long enough to demand again, "Will I need to tie you down, Christine?"

Words felt difficult, and so she only shook her head and gave the answer she was doubtless he wanted. A willing prisoner signing away every right, and yet why did a strange tingle of anticipation race her spine in the instant he took her sight? Blind to the true heinousness of her situation, and that seemed to make it forgivable.

With her sight taken, Erik lost his bravado and let his trembling take over, wondering how he had kept it in control so long. Now she would not see his unconfident uncertainties or know that amidst the most desperate desire he'd ever known, _love_ was interlaced. She could think he was heartless instead, and the thought need not be shared.

Stepping behind her, he began to unclasp her gown. How had he controlled this hunger for her all day? He'd even denied himself the luxury of watching her in his mirrors, detaching completely, abandoning the house to stalk the dark alleyways of Paris' streets, desperate for distance from his sins. Murder was a different condemnation; it held no remorse. A dead body was finished; there was no further need to look it in the eye and be repentant. But taking the woman he adored and stripping her of her freedom as well as her innocence was appalling. He couldn't stomach the memories even as they teased and tempted, begging him to take more. Eventually, memory won out and had him rushing home with a need to touch her, to feel creamy, soft skin and believe it was truly his. Of course, he hadn't anticipated bruises, but he should have known; no crime went without evidence. And he was accustomed to leaving damage.

Emotion was clutched in fisted hands and kept away as he methodically undressed her, watching with intrigue as she shivered and trembled on her feet yet never uttered a sound. Well, he was determined to fix that! He _wanted_ sound. Not protests or horror. No, he wanted another symphony of desire to intoxicate his ears. Dear Lord, her passionate cries were more beautiful than even his most adored music! He could be content on their serenade for eternity.

Flawless skin and more flawless skin, enough to satiate eager hands and fill the span of sight. All that remained was a flimsy shift, granting shadowed glimpses of the treasures beneath, but as he reached for its hem, her voice halted him and shook him to his core.

"What is your name?" It was a whisper, so soft and tremulous, but it radiated along the screen of desire and ran shatters through its shield.

"W…why would you ask such a thing?" he demanded, and his voice wavered enough to steal terseness.

A small shrug of narrow shoulders, and he ran his fevered gaze over her blindfolded face, seeking the answer. "You must have a name."

"Must I?" he snapped and saw her flinch. "Mortal men have names, but I am the Opera Ghost, the legend and phantom. Is that not an improvement to the limitations of a mortal name? A name is fallible and weak. It puts me on the same level as worthless humanity. I'd rather be a god."

"…Or an angel," she softly muttered with a desolation he had not expected.

"Angel…? Yes, _angel_, Christine. I can still be an angel for you. Like this, there is no difference. You are ignorant to the truths your eyes tell you. …And if an angel touched you, it couldn't be a sin," he decided and clung to it as his excuse. "Yes, yes, your Angel of Music, Christine, your angel still." Catching the thin material of her shift, he finally lifted it over her head and tossed it uselessly aside, uncovering perfection. "And your angel _burns_ for you, Christine, _only you_. How he has _suffered_ this ache to touch _you_, to feel _your_ skin! How he wants you!"

Mismatched eyes raced along her body, relearning its gloriousness and memorizing nuances. He settled on her blindfolded face and mesmerized himself on the curve of a bit lip as she forced words and breaths inside, leaving him desperate for her approval.

"Christine," he moaned, and with one last check that the scarf was in place, he removed his mask, adding it to the pile of her clothes. This one detail kept him from being an angel, but she need not see and need not remember. An angel… In husky whispers, he told her, "Your angel is pleased with you, Christine, with your beauty and your sensuality. …Are you wet for me, too?"

He saw the effect his words had, the quiver of her body, but that bit lip still stole answers as much as protests. Oh no, that wouldn't do! Without coaxing her, he chose to act and slid his hand between her legs, parting her silken folds with one finger and slipping inside.

"Oh God," he breathed with a groan, his body throbbing with a desperate ache for more than a finger to be allowed inside. "You're wet, Christine. I have yet to touch you, and your body already wants me. You are a prisoner here, and I am ravaging you, …but you _want me_. How can I know guilt if I am but giving you what you want?"

Guilt… Christine hadn't considered murderers could feel guilt for anything. Sense argued that he _should_ know guilt, that what he was doing was wrong, but her body tingled through every pore with his touch and begged for more. Opera Ghost, …no, _angel_, and in that fantasy, she was eager and permitted, …_encouraged_. Her legs parted further of their own accord and opened for him, for a finger that stroked and teased, that rubbed with a gentleness that made her melt.

That audacious finger probed deeper, sliding within, and she gasped, shaken by such an intimate intrusion. She longed to deny him, but he was _tender_ again, coaxing acquiescence. There was pain that only intensified as one finger became two, but despite his hoarse breaths filling her ears, he gave no indication of violence or his own desire. He was patient, and she knew he did not have to be. Slow, tentative, his fingers moved in and out, finding a languid rhythm that made her knees quake with a yearning to give way and drop their hold.

She was blinded to his wanting, ignorant to his intentions, pretending this was her _angel_ and certainly not a disfigured madman. Lost to the dark, she only sensed an approach and cried out uninhibited as her nipple was captured and engulfed in the warm, wet cavern of his mouth. The nagging voice of sense dwindling in the background sought to focus on the graze of lips that seemed puffy, …deformed, but he sucked and toyed with her nipple and made her prefer to forget.

Sound was limited to her cries, becoming more frenzied with every caress, and she wondered if that was his intent. To make the fantasy real and convince her to forget that this was a _man_ abducting such intimacies. No, …no, angel…

His surrender came with a yielding moan as he suddenly plopped to his knees before her. Catching her hip with his free hand, he kept her in place and upright for his assault as his mouth found her womanhood and devoured with a ferocity that made her shout. His fingers moved rougher, harsher, in and out while his tongue lapped and teased, and his delighted moans harmonized with her cries. He made it seem all he wanted was _her_ pleasure, and she didn't have the will to argue.

"_Ange_…," she whimpered, her hands darting forward to clutch his shoulders. …A body, a man…, but she didn't care what he was, not when this overcome. "_Please_." She arched closer, a sob catching in the back of her throat as he moved vigorous, moaning approval and wanting, digging fingertips into her hip.

Pleasure was a vortex of sensation. It suffocated everything but its mounting precipice, and as she fell over its edge and felt ecstasy blossom, she clung to him as an anchor and was grateful for his strength.

Christine sagged against him, gasping breaths as shivers chased goosebumps along her skin. Reality shifted in and out of focus. She didn't want its cold blatancy when it made her blush with shame and call herself brazen. But he released her, and she recalled every unwanted detail.

Before tears reached the surface, he lifted the blindfold from her eyes, and she could not quiet a moan of disappointment. The Opera Ghost, masked and pristine, suppressing any hint to reveal he wanted her. It wasn't fair. Desire at his hands. He dubbed it a sin; everything about it _was_ a sin, but _she_ was the one to feel its condemning burn.

Without a word, he swept her bare body into his arms. She stiffened through every muscle. Was this to be the moment he took more? But he only carried her to bed and laid her down, covering her without another touch.

Christine stared at him, unsure what to say or think, but all she saw in that masked face was self-loathing. It was thick, laden in disgust.

"Sleep," he bid, an angel's voice hoarse and revealing the desire he carried.

"_Ange_…," she whispered, unable to keep from trembling. Questions played on her tongue, but sense restrained every syllable. He wanted, but he wasn't going to take. Why tempt a monster? That seemed common sense.

"Sleep," he commanded again, and with one more look, he darted from the room with only the click of the lock to speak farewells.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall this time. She wasn't sure who she was crying for: herself or her fallen angel. This was wrong; everything about this was wrong. This man had deceived her into fairytales, then destroyed them with his own hands, and now he was determined to make desire fill the empty space in her heart, to make her care with touch and tenderness, to make her forget that she was his prisoner and should be terrified. And yet amidst it all, he seemed to hate himself for it. And what was she to feel? Pity, compassion, to care for the man abusing her?

_No_! She felt twisted inside and couldn't tell right from wrong. She couldn't find the correct path. Care? No, she wasn't _supposed_ to care. …Why did she care?

* * *

Living underground without sunlight, every day bled one into the next until Christine lost count. Five days, six, a week perhaps. She was confined to her bedroom, not again allowed run of the house, and most of her hours were spent alone. Her captor kept his distance, leaving her to mourn an angel that had never existed. It seemed silly, but her angel had been a friend and confidante, …a love. The man who had taken his place was a poor substitute.

He came to her at night. She waited awake, expecting him and a pleasure he seemed adamant to give. Hands and lips roamed her body while a scarf knotted over her eyes stole glimpses of a mortal man and kept an angel as her secret fantasy. He touched her, never taking anything for himself, enticing her to crave his caresses, his disfigured mouth over every feature of her body. She wondered if that was his intent, to condition her to his presence, perhaps grow real roots within a loose soil bed of deception.

…And Lord help her, it was working! She savored his appearance, no longer afraid. She allowed him, uninhibited in her cries, clutching him with fierce hands and a grip that felt unbreakable, and every word that passed his lips, thickly provocative intermixed with moans, only drove passion further and made a craving into a necessity.

This wasn't the fairytale it was supposed to have been, and although she grieved the angel, she did not grieve the dream, not when real life meant adorations playing on his tongue and pleasure so poignant that it stole sense. It was difficult to hold animosity in the midst of longing, and she found herself anticipating every time the echo of his key in the door met her ear and made her melt before he even appeared.

Fairytale was gone; this was reality, but it wasn't the nightmare she expected. And that left her as confused as ever.

Huffing discontent, Christine paced her room, pausing to stare at her mirror's reflection. What was wrong with her? She should condemn herself for every pleasant thought about the murderer who had locked her away underground. Perhaps affection only came because of a somber acceptance that _this_ was all she would have as hers.

The girl staring back didn't look distraught, and such a realization brought furrows to her smooth brow as her conscience chastised her. No, this wasn't right; none of it was right, yet why did she want it so much?

On the opposite side of the glass, Erik watched her with lustful eyes. Lustful, _always_ lustful. Even love felt stifled beneath the power of wanting, but days spent with the object of his desire only ignited an inferno from a spark. He would have taken her. She might struggle, might refuse, but in the end, the decision was his. Why then did he leave himself to be tortured and choose instead to please only her? He blamed a heart that was too attached. Please her, love her, adore her. She had to know reverence existed. He kept its whisper in every caress. He _loved her_, and it wasn't easy to make the very purpose for his heartbeat into a victim.

But…desire was potent and intense, throbbing inside and out. He could endure it no longer without some sort of fulfillment. Tonight he knew he must ask more of her. …Ask? Command, as much as his heart warned against it.

His gaze traced her face with that damnable boundary in between. She was just as blind to his presence as a blindfold left her, and it was a bitter realization that only without sight could she truly _see_ him and free herself from every binding that restricted and made love into a sin. He ached for love, …and yet if her body were all he'd have, he would take it and cling to it and make certain that it belonged to no one else.

With a frustrated growl, Erik abandoned the secret room and her torturous image, already aching to a dull pain as fantasies twisted in his head and begged his indulgence. _Tonight_, he promised. _Tonight_ he would get rid of his burning need. She must be taught that passion was equally shared. …And if she denied him… _No_. He wouldn't _let her_ deny him.

* * *

It was no surprise that she was waiting up for him when he entered her room, dutifully sitting on the edge of the mattress, blindfold resting in her lap. She nervously stumbled to her feet, and as always, he saw apprehension. It was an inherent response to the man in a mask, and he loathed its telltale signs, that frightened shiver, the wide, anxious eyes. She always chose fear first, even if she surrendered it once darkness took his image. He hated her for it.

"Christine," he greeted with a certain calmness, careful not to allow too much to be read in his stare. "I trust you've had a pleasant day."

She shifted on her feet as if debating a reply, and he urged in a gentle voice he knew she'd obey, "Speak freely. What is it?"

Though she hesitated still, she tentatively bid, "I've been confined to this room for days."

"It isn't to your liking? I provide you with everything you need. If there is something more, name it, and I shall fetch it for you."

"It…isn't that. The first day I was here, you allowed me to roam the house."

"And look where that got us!" he snapped and yet regretted abruptness to see her flinch and recoil. Shaking his head, he attempted a better argument. "There are places in my home not meant for your infernal curiosity to explore. You could have been _killed_ the last time. Locking you up is as much a means to protect you as keep you."

"But…" She seemed urgent to collect dwindling courage. "I promise not to go into any room you prohibit, to stay in the main rooms. I promise _anything_ you want. I…I can't endure being locked in one little room for the rest of my life."

He had the inclination to protest. Locked in one room for a week? He'd been locked underground for _years_. One could adjust to anything if the need were present. But…he had a thought that her longing for rooms to explore could be used to his advantage? "And…what would you do for such a privilege, Christine?"

"Do?"

Pausing with one last assessment of consequences, Erik slowly approached, noting minor victory that she did not back away. "By my own assessment, I have been relatively indulgent to you this past week. I've given you desire and demanded nothing in return. For as much of a monster as you claim me to be, that truth must tally in my favor. I haven't forced you," he reminded sternly and stared with fascination at her bit lip. She was anxious, and yet he did not back down. "Now you want something of me: freedom in my home even though it was your own folly that put you in this place. And what am I to gain in return?"

She did not answer, wide eyes lowering to the floor with a fear he could practically taste in the air, and he repeated firmly, "I will not _force_ you. I only ask fairness. One would think I've earned at least that."

"What…would you have me do?" she softly asked, cringing her trepidation.

Erik contemplated ending this attempt altogether, but his aching body insisted that she had yet to say no. She wasn't _allowed_ to say no. "Nothing more than I have done for you. This desire…it _consumes_ me, Christine. I can't be blamed for yearning for satisfaction. You must realize it is perfect torture to have your bare skin at my beckoning. The feel of you, …the taste of you… My God, Christine, perhaps you will call me a monster, but I cannot suffer this need forever. For months, I've had to watch you, never permitted a real door into your life, an incorporeal angel by my own doing. Now…all I've ached for is in my hands, and yet I suffer the same."

"But you are not asking, are you?" she demanded, furtively glancing to his constant stare. "It isn't my choice."

"No, it's not, but I find I prefer you willing rather than tied to a bed and forced. Bartering your freedom to roam the house makes it less offensive, wouldn't you say? You can dub yourself a martyr to your sense of guilt." He hadn't wanted to be so cold, but he blamed her for making the truth sound a further abomination. "Undress," he suddenly commanded and endured the hurt in her glare. Had she expecting sweet notions and feelings? He would have indulged a fantasy of romance, but she'd stolen it with blatant realism.

Trembling, she obeyed, staring at him with those condemning eyes all the while. No, he would not sway to their guilt this time, not as layers fell away and exposed details of the body he'd spent the past week worshipping. She preferred the blindfold, but he did not permit that escape until she was concealed in only her thin shift. Then lifting it in hands he knew shook and made him weak, he fitted it into place and tied it atop her curls.

"Our arrangement?" he pushed now that she was sightless. "Will you be willing? Free reign of the rooms I grant permission to enter. Incentive for your cooperation. Do I have your agreement?"

Christine gave a dull nod. He made it seem a choice. What choice? It was determined before he entered the room and reminded her of the true heinousness of their relationship. How could she have ever considered it any other way? She'd foolishly convinced herself that she cared…

Accustomed to the scarf's hindrance, her ears attuned to the scene and interpreted for her. A shift of movement, and she knew he removed his mask. He always did that first as if reminding himself of damage while she was led to believe in perfection.

More rustles, and the breath fled her lungs as her mind conjured imaginary scenes of disrobing, of a bare, _mortal_ body mere inches from hers. She would not touch and feel wings or halos. This was a man, and not even her fantasy of angels could steal that fact tonight.

His hands rested on her shoulders, fingers curling about the straps of her shift, but to her surprise, he did not remove it as if afraid to flame too much temptation at once. He brought long caresses down her bare arms, and she edged closer. She couldn't help it; her body recognized his hands and wanted every touch they could offer.

His fingers found hers, weaving between as he lifted her pliant arms and guided her closer. She knew fear only until he pressed her hands to his bare chest and released. Then…fear evaporated to a soft catch of breath. Surprise, astonishment, horror, compassion. She felt the heartbeat beneath her palm skip and race with an anxiety that clenched every muscle and pore, but before he could shrink away, she splayed her fingers wide and made a firmer contact.

This wasn't the body she'd expected. Angels were figments; a mortal shape was anticipated. But this…this was a travesty. Scars, some upraised, some as missing grooves of skin, too many to fathom truly existed on one body.

As her shaking hands grew confident against his chilled, damaged torso, she gently caressed. Tentative, always a question for fear she'd cause pain instead of solace, and that heartbeat was an erratic pulsation that radiated along the surface.

Forming words was a challenge, but as she felt him shiver and give the smallest moan of concession, relaxing to her touch, she found courage to softly bid, "What happened to cause this?"

Christine feared he'd lash out for her prying and prepared for harsh resentment, but as he exhaled in a sigh, he tentatively replied, "These were made by the hands of man, not God."

She swallowed against an impulsive sob. Dear Lord, what he'd endured! With a waver that gave compassion away, she pushed, "And your face?"

"No, that was God's own artistry, His sick joke. He created that monstrosity alone. _Face_?" That beautiful angel's voice cracked over the word as he corrected, "It isn't a face; it's a test. A burden to bear and see if I break. I've carried its consequences my entire existence, but I have yet to grant God the satisfaction of seeing my soul shatter. He wanted to challenge me; well, I spun His game upside down and took up _His_ authority. _Break_? No, I _conquer_. I was weak once, and it left destruction. Now I hurt them before they ever hurt me."

Christine listened to him speak with such assertion, but she didn't fully believe the strength beneath. Not while his body trembled merely to endure her gentle caresses as if on edge and waiting for more pain. In a tearful tone, she insisted, "_I_ won't hurt you."

"You already have," he replied as if surprised she didn't know. "You've hurt me worse than anyone ever has before, worse than pokers and whips, worse than skin flayed to leave scars. I foolishly granted _you_ the power to destroy me without ever realizing it. I broke my own rules. I was _weak_. I let my heart take control, and what has it gotten me? Not a lover, no, …a victim to suffer my love instead of savor it. I've made my love a punishment for you."

Tears couldn't fall, caught by a scarf and remaining pressed to her cheekbones as she bore the bitterness of his words. She wanted to apologize, to beg forgiveness and ignorance as her intolerance taunted her. Yes, this was a man who was damaged and condemned, but he'd offered her love once before. An angel to adore her, and he adored her still when a blindfold made him an angel again.

A blindfold made her deny truths instead of accept him. It let illusion play on as he seemed desperate to rewrite the love story that had been destroyed. And it hurt her to realize that there were reasons, that even murder had reasons, even abduction, even anger and cruelty. Every reason spread before her on a canvas laden in scars…

Her palms found his narrow shoulders before roaming the lengths of his arms, uncovering more damage as she went, and as she paused a moment at his hands and clasped tight, she urged, "I want to see you."

"No," he immediately snapped, and though he tried to move away, she kept hands held firm.

"Please."

"Why would you need to see anything? You can already feel it and know that my body is as deformed as my face, another horror story for you to keep. Seeing makes it real, and I prefer to pretend you won't suffer nightmares because of it." With a growl of annoyance, he fisted his hands about her knuckles and jerked them to his body again. "This isn't supposed to be about compassion and pretended affections tonight. This is supposed to be desire. Stop your deceitful tricks and touch me, or I will lock you in this room and never give you the option of coming out again."

She did not find threat in his words, hearing too much pain and not enough anger to make them valid. No, the threat came as he pressed her hand to his erection. She jolted and shivered, fear suddenly spiraling beyond control. Dear God, he was…big, hard, throbbing against her terrified fingers and their uncertain touch. She felt like a foolish child to have never fully understood the mysteries of the male body. But he did not seem to notice her awkwardness and unease, hissing a breath and losing a fitful cry in the next.

She wondered if her touch was painful and began to draw away, but his hand caught hers again and forced it back as he rasped out, "Don't you dare stop! Please God, don't stop!"

And she obeyed, cupping her palm about his vast width and making timid caresses. How she wished for her sight! She was certain she'd be less clumsy and fumbling if she could see. He was so smooth, so _alive_ in her hand that it amazed her. To be learning the secrets of desire and know that he was their victim for _her_ held a sense of wonder. It made her less shy, less afraid, gave her a purpose and a reason for what her conscience dubbed a transgression.

Christine trailed her hand up and down his shaft, hesitating only with his desperate moans. She kept a worry that her touch caused pain, but when she loosened curled fingers and sought delicacy, his hand surrounded hers and made her grip firmer still. She blushed bright, the heat burning pink beneath her skin, but he never said a word about her inexperience. He simply guided her hand to the touch he wanted, arching into her palm as he led a harsh motion, harsher than she would have ever attempted on her own.

She remained passive and yielding, allowing his instruction until he released her hand and then continuing without pause. And why? This was no longer about earning freedom in her prison house; such an incentive was not even a consideration. This was merely about him, about _his_ body and _his_ pleasure, about giving him something when he was so certain he was cursed to have nothing. She felt knowledgeable from nights past of pleasure to understand the ecstasy he wanted, the release. For one brief moment, bliss would be all that mattered, and she wanted to give that to him.

"Christine," he gasped in a fever, and his hands weaved into her curls, kneading with restless necessity. "You can't imagine how your touch feels. How often I fantasized how warm and soft you would be, but I was made to crave and suffer alone. …I want more."

She did not comprehend his intentions, but the hands in her hair suddenly fisted and tugged until she had no choice but to follow their lead to the floor.

Wisps of doubt in Erik's mind begged him to end this, but desire was too potent and insisted he could not turn back, not without fulfillment. So long he agonized in arousal, and now he could finally have the release he wanted by the very one who inspired his ache.

She trembled and seemed afraid again, her hand still making uncertain caresses, and as he gripped her silken curls, he hoarsely commanded, "Take me in your mouth, Christine."

The instant he spoke the words, he regretted, terrified he had pushed too far, but to his astonishment, she leaned forward and timidly obeyed.

Erik cried out with the first brushing of her lips to his manhood, and as she opened and took him within the cavern of her mouth, he felt the shock race tingles through his entire body. For so long, he had held this at bay, but now with the warm wetness of her mouth surrounding him, he knew he had no choice left but to surrender.

Gentle despite the power of wanting, he guided her back and forth, moaning eager at her acquiescence. She allowed his lead, one of her little hands resting so delicately against his hip and fingering another scar that misshaped its natural curve. One gentle touch, but it held an adoration he prayed he was not imagining.

Erik couldn't restrain passion much longer, but as his eyes feasted on the image of his half-clad love taking his hardness into her mouth, a twinge of regret poked through. It was that blindfold, its presence destroying every illusion he tried to concoct, and urgent for the fantasy, he closed his eyes and shut the image away, creating another behind his lids where she took him because _she_ wanted to and watched him with desire and love all her own.

Christine could tell by his growing cries that he was getting close, and keeping one hand to his scarred hipbone, she lifted the other and nonchalantly shifted the top edge of the blindfold, just enough to peek out. And what she saw…

It was ugly and hideous, so much damage, so much malformed flesh, and yet it didn't inspire the disgust she had half-expected. It seared vibrant images into her memory and made her quiver with her own longing. It was ugly, and it was _beautiful_.

His eyes were closed, and yet she kept her guard, ready to duck from notice if necessary. Scars…everywhere. His face was only a prelude to the madness unleashed on his body. Pale white skin and yet shiny and obscure in patches of the worst destruction as some marks remained uplifted and held shape. He was fragile, and it surprised her so much to know she feared a man who was vulnerably bared before her and revealed weakness in a thin stature, in bones that could be defined where they rested and sallow, marked flesh. He did not appear as a god or the Opera Ghost at that moment; he was merely a broken man as temporary as every other.

His hands were no longer guiding her motions, and as she moved of her own accord, she grew more frenzied with his desperation and her own growing ache. His face was the point that drove her passion to searing heights. Eyes closed, hideous features taut and constricted in his need for release. It was raw, like a glimpse into the soul, scars no one else bore witness to, now alight with fervent hunger _for her_. That reality made her mutter small cries against his manhood and devour with a yearning to inspire it further.

"Oh, Christine," he cried out, and she shuddered at the gloriousness of his voice. All of a sudden, he jerked her back, breaking contact with a fervent shout of ecstasy. She quickly readjusted her blindfold into place and listened to the sounds of his gasped breaths as they echoed the room.

Bliss, the most exquisite he had ever known, and just as quickly, shame followed behind. Erik averted frantic eyes to his beautiful girl, but she was yet kneeling on the ground, blinded to his presence and awaiting instruction. His beautiful Christine, and he suddenly hated himself for what he'd coerced her to do. Biting back a sob that would have revealed too much, he quickly yanked on his clothing, covering his face with a mask that shook in his flustered grasp. …What had he done?

Pacing a weary line before her, he sought words, _any_ words, apologies, promises, _anything_, but she was the one to break the length of silence with a soft inquiry. "_Ange_?"

"Yes, …yes, Christine," he stammered, clearing his throat of remaining tears, and before he could contemplate it, he swept her into his arms and carried her to bed. Every remaining shred of conscience begged him to go and leave her be, but as he lifted a blanket over her, he indulged the pull of his heart to lie down beside her. To his shocked surprise, she cuddled close to him; he attributed it to the blindfold and almost rejected discarding it. As he took it away, he refused even a look at her, so certain the blame he'd find in her eyes would kill him.

"_Ange_…"

"Sshh," Erik bid, weaving his arms about her body. This was _his_. He had stolen it from the world, bent it to his will, committed sins against it, but he wouldn't care if caring meant giving her up. No, this was _his_. "Go to sleep, Christine."

But though she conceded to his hold and lay willing in his arms, she softly asked, "Will you tell me your name now?"

"Why does it matter?" he insisted back. "Perhaps I have no name. Perhaps it is only what they've dubbed me that defines me. Monster, corpse, devil. You choose who I will be to you. Angel is unfitting, I realize. You may call me whatever heinous appellation you wish, and I will only strive to live up to it."

"Every creature has a name," she replied as her argument, and he longed to disagree, or at least claim that sometimes a name wasn't as suiting as a degrading insult. "Please," she pushed, and he felt her eyes upon his masked face even though he refused to share a single look. "You must know that after such intimacies, …you must be a mortal man to me. Please tell me."

He huffed a breath in aggravation, but then considered how beautiful the letters would play in her voice. It would sound as ill-fitted as angel, but he couldn't resist the temptation. "Erik."

"Erik," she gently repeated, and each syllable brought its own shudder along his spine.

"It isn't as wondrous as angel," he quickly replied. "Nothing even worthy of remembrance."

"It's your name," she justified.

"Monster is more applicable."

"You were born Erik."

"I was born _nothing_," he retorted and felt her stiffen against him. Calm, where was restraint? Having her so close should have dimmed the usual melancholy that came with memories, but all he could think was that she was unknowing, naïve yet to the true cruelty of the world. "Erik," he spat the word. "It was not some lovingly chosen appellation bestowed by an adoring mother. It was the name of the doctor who birthed me. Left to my mother, I'd have had no name at all save 'abomination'. She cursed me at first glimpse of me, and frivolities like proper names could not stand next to 'freak' and 'devil's child'. So call me what you will, Christine. I've no attachment to the name Erik. Very few have known its title. It sounds ordinary, and I am anything but."

She was silent for a long moment, but he still would not look, nervous what effect his story had. Finally, she concluded with a definite waver, "I shall call you Erik. Perhaps it will remind you that you are a human being, not a god or an angel or a devil."

Tears…, he abruptly shifted eyes to her in a desperation to confirm. Why did it please him to know she cried for his wounds? "Are you so certain? Perhaps my name will only serve to remind you that we do not play a game anymore, and angels are dead."

"You are right. We do not play a game anymore, but perhaps it's time we both were aware of it."

She gazed up at his masked face, and it was disconcerting to him to be so near another person without threats and violence in the air. This was comfort and compassion, echoes of emotions he longed for her to feel. He caught faint glimpses, and they gave him hope.

"Goodnight, Christine," he whispered, making no move to release her.

But she showed no hesitation to rest her head against his shoulder. "Goodnight, Erik."

Erik… Another shiver plagued his limbs, and he held her tight and shared the brunt of it.

Everything about this relationship was the very opposite of his once-established plans; but he held her as she drifted off to sleep, and this felt like an even better plan. If it ended with her in his arms, how could he question a single detail?


	3. Chapter 3

Christine awoke alone in her bed with only shadows for company. As she rolled over and opened heavy eyes, she was drawn to the tiptoed entrance of warm light, and a smile tinged her lips. The door to her room was unlocked and cracked so that the glow of hallway lanterns spilled within. Freedom, however minimal, but was it because she'd earned it by succumbing and permitting an angel's desires, or was it an act of genuine affection? She had to wonder when she recalled awaking several times during the night to the sound of his steady breathing beside her and the weight of his arm resting casually about her.

Sleeping beside her certainly held some level of undisclosed emotion that exceeded intimate encounters. It was tender, and then there was the horror in every story he shared about his life, and affection welled and solidified. Her remaining fragments of better sense insisted she shouldn't care about him. It was as much a transgression as what he'd done to her, but she _did_ care. It was already embedded somewhere in her heart, and tragic tales of a horrible mother and life's brutalities only deepened it.

Erik… His name sang in her mind as she rose and readied for the day with anticipation fluttering through every movement. Her dreams had played sweet even as images of scars and damage haunted. His face contorted in wanting and then pleasure, every hoarse cry and desperate shout in the midst of need, and even in sleep, her skin had recalled the feel of his and the body that had been beneath her fingertips. She didn't know shame to admit she longed to do everything again. Memory made her blush, but it also created ripples of aches. The feel of his desire in her hands, in her mouth, the violence of his every response… Somewhere inside she called herself brazen and certainly not a lady to be so eager, but a blush intensified and stole right and wrong from coherency. Wanting was too great to deny.

Finally gowned and impatiently rushing her footsteps, she hurried out into the house with a smile, calling ahead, "Erik…"

But her only reply was the crackle of a fire in the hearth, nothing else but silence. He was gone, and disappointment took the place of anticipation and paved a path to melancholy. Alone…again. She had spent the majority of the last week alone in one room; arguing for reign of the house had carried the underlying advantage of another presence for company, _his_ presence. But he'd already denied her that simple luxury.

Breakfast was laid out for her in the dining room, and though she had explored the house once before on that ill-fated day, torture chambers and dead bodies shadowed the memories. This exploration kept boundaries. She did not let curiosity out and avoided closed doors per her promise. Nothing but the main rooms where firelight was a comforting companion. She had once considered this house the palace of a fairytale; now…well, now she considered it a home with a certain familiarity and attachment she had not expected to find.

But for all its comforts, time was an enemy when it only brought more minutes alone. She grew bored quickly and ended back in the same place she'd started, plopped down upon her bed and idly daydreaming.

The second she heard the creak of the front door, she started and leapt to her feet with wide, anxious eyes and an anxiety that did not relinquish its hold even after a masked face appeared in her doorway.

"Did the open door not make it evident that you are free to roam as you like?" Erik demanded, shaking his head in confusion. "Why do I find you still in this room after you argued so adamantly last night?"

"Where did you go?" she impulsively asked, fisting shaking hands in her skirts.

"Why? Did you spend your time devising crimes for me to perform? Envision me out murdering with the same hands that touch you so tenderly?"

The bitterness in his glare took her off-guard, and she quickly insisted, "No, no, …I merely worried to find you gone."

Erik cursed himself for his temper, and yet he was still hesitant to trust a single word past her lips. He longed for their validity far too much to naively accept. But he did not feel inclined to admit that he'd endured hours walking, directionless and tormented by the only crimes he knew guilt for. The previous night was an act meant for hell as far as he was concerned. Damning and yet so full of temptation that he ached to do it again, even if his soul was burned alive in eternal flames for it.

Her eyes were on his, waiting for a response, and he hastily insisted, "I don't just wander about killing people at my whim."

"I never said-"

"The body you found was not there by my doing. He fell into the torture chamber on his own while foolishly wandering the underground. I have traps to protect myself, not to intentionally kill for my enjoyment, as I'm sure you assume. The torture chamber is designed to _torture_; if an ignorant stagehand dies while inside, then it has done its job and kept my existence safe, and I bear no regret."

He couldn't say why he was spilling secrets without a thought, merely that her eyes made him do it. There was something in the blues, something that reminded him that he was a man and guilt was his price to pay. Perhaps it was her purity or the fact that he truly and deeply loved her, but she was practically his conscience and incited an urge to confess every evil deed he had ever committed.

She listened with a furrow along her brow, but his fascination with its shape shattered as she asked, "And would you have known regret if _I_ had died in your chamber?"

His bravado collapsed from under him with the thought as he vehemently declared, "Of course! My God, Christine, I may be a monster, but I am not heartless. _You_ are my heart. If I'd have lost you by my own device… The day I stole your freedom and locked you in this room to start, it wasn't solely out of anger that you found the body and knew what I was; it was out of fear that I could have lost you." Shaking his head, he abruptly shoved the memories away and stiffly bid, "And from an avoided sin to a committed one, I hurt you instead…"

Huffing self-loathing, he stalked out of the room, hearing her call his name after him. Oh, that beautiful voice, those demanding blue eyes, that body he ached to touch! She was the one spark in his existence. Was it any wonder he couldn't give her up?

Erik was only gone a moment, and before Christine could contemplate going after him, he returned with two over-filled bags.

"What…is all that?" she questioned, for the first time obeying curiosity to creep closer and try to peek inside.

"Books, needlepoint, supplies to paint, stationary." He shrugged as if it meant nothing. "I didn't know what you'd enjoy most. You must be bored locked down here with little to bide your time, and I thought…to make it not as horrible a fate as I'm sure it seems."

Before she could find gratitude through her surprise, he left the bags and abandoned her room, leaving her to gape after him.

It was astounding. Every time she was certain she understood him, he shattered the puzzle back to pieces. And every time she put it together again, it tied another string to her heart. As unacceptable as sense deemed it, she felt bound inside and out to a fallen angel, and she wasn't sure she didn't _want_ to be.

* * *

Christine spent the rest of the day with a book spread before her upon the sitting room couch. In truth, she hadn't comprehended a single word she had read. How could she focus when music poured out of the next room? Broken snippets, random pieces as if the man playing had no set direction or commitment to a particular mood. She heard a bit of Beethoven's sonatas, a parlay into Bach's fugues, Mozart's requiem tossed in the middle of Chopin's etudes, and every so often, pieces she bore no recognition for, ones she had no choice but to attribute to their player. It was a glorious repertoire, and yet disconcerting as she felt herself thrust into the atmosphere of each and every note and its corresponding emotion only to be tossed into the next and the next. It was a lifetime's span of emotion in one afternoon.

As the latest rondeau was dismissed with a harsh pounding of dissonant chords, she finally let will guide her and scampered to her feet, tiptoeing to the music room. Trepidation kept her in the threshold, but peering inside, she fixed her gaze on Erik's masked profile. He was engrossed, flipping through a stack of manuscript paper, so attuned to the task that he never took note of her presence, and it gave her the chance to study him unobserved.

It was frivolous and yet denied her just the same. To regard him without walls or emotions so intense that they swayed her on her feet. No. She simply took in a mortal makeup, a man with a thin frame, one she knew bore scars and felt oddly special to carry such a secret with him. He wasn't overly tall or overly intimidating; the threat came in the weighted aura surrounding, in mismatched eyes and the power of their stare, in the very title of Opera Ghost. But to watch him with guard down, he wasn't the Opera Ghost or angel; he was the man she had touched so intimately the previous night, the man who touched her back and yet sought her heart to claim as well. In that context, she wasn't afraid and wondered if that was a mistake.

Finally finding what he'd been after, he set another piece before him at the piano, this one scribbled in black ink that denoted it as his. With the skill of a master, he began to play, and she felt the notes tingle a path into her body. Beautiful was a vast understatement; even virtuosic fell short. This was his soul on paper. It extended out from the splay of his hands and cascaded through the piano's keys, echoing in brilliance through the underground home. It felt like an invitation, an offer in every lyrical line to look and to _see_, to fill in places where she'd been blind and interpret the man who was captor and lover at the same time. She had held misconceptions; the music shattered them to pieces again. At that moment, she wanted to love him so much that it frightened her and left her to wonder if it was the music's manipulation. Coax her heart through song and know she would never refuse.

As the piece evolved from one of thick intensity to a lilting adagio, she crept on silent feet closer. Like a sleepwalker, she moved without thought. It was as if the music had grown arms that reached and enveloped her, drawing her into a dangerous yet craved embrace. It beckoned her to be a part of the scene, to let it inside, and she never refused its siren call.

Coming behind her once-angel's shape, she was entranced by the rise and fall of his body. The melody commanded and controlled, pulling him along its tide like a willing marionette, and she envied him, wanting to be as possessed and consumed, willing to surrender if only to be a part of the music, …of _him_. His torso lifted with the intensity, flowing smooth, and as it sagged again in that wonderful carousel motion, she dared to set her palms upon his shoulders, delicate, weightless, and as the music swept through him again, she felt it seep within skin cells, branding her palms in its trek to her core.

For one moment, it felt like magic, something so exquisite that it couldn't be of this earth, and then in the next, reality seemed to return. Suddenly aware, he gasped and halted mid-chord, recoiling from her touch as if she'd seared him.

"Christine!"

With a jump, she drew back and stared through wide eyes as the hazy wisps of melodies faded away. "I…I'm sorry. I was just… You play so beautifully. I wanted…to feel it."

Guards were raised again, and Erik cursed his ignorance to have ever let them down. How she shook him with a single contact! But he wanted to seem strong and invincible. Last night, he had faltered; he didn't want that reality again.

"I'm not accustomed to an audience when I play," he justified and fought for composure.

"You forgot I was here?" she asked with a modicum of amusement.

"I forget _everything_ in the music. It demands such rapture and inhibition. To truly let it inside, one must renounce the world and make music his only master. I serve no one but the music."

She seemed desperate to understand and softly bid, "Will you insist I do the same? I'm not sure it is within my capabilities."

"I've seen potential," he protested. "When it was just you and I, no world or secrets spoken, and you sang for an angel. There were instances where you lived and breathed only the music, but they were always short-lived. Doubt interfered. You were never convicted in the music, but you were adamant to an angel. Perhaps had I not grown selfish, had I not destroyed the illusion, you would have learned to succumb to the music the way you succumbed to me." He sighed with a somber shrug and abruptly shifted away from unwanted considerations. "Are you hungry? I will prepare supper."

Christine watched him take an escape with an urge to command that he stay. It seemed inherent that he abandon her whenever she pushed on his heart as if terrified the point would come when she would steal the flicker of hope he constantly seemed to grasp. Hope for what? A happy ending? Were there happy endings for murderers who abducted a heart instead of earned it? Was a happy ending solely in a perception? She could choose to discount the sins he had inflicted and make a happy ending into a projected future. But what would that mean? Loving a disfigured murderer? Love seemed a farfetched illusion, but when hatred was equally denounced, she was unable to decide what that meant for her heart.

* * *

It was a peculiar privilege to sit at a typically unused dining room table and share a meal as if she were his guest instead of a prisoner, but Erik decided to immerse himself in the fantasy and pretend her companionship was freely given. Idly sipping a glass of wine, he watched her at every moment, noting the melancholy she indulged and wondering if he could bribe her into playing make believe with him at least for a little while. Perhaps he'd vow not to come to her room tonight, not to take liberties that weren't rightly his if she would just smile and speak candidly as she once had to an angel. But…one glance at the creamy, flawless patch of skin exposed at her neckline, and he knew he'd break that vow and be called a liar. The pretext of captor gave him intimacies he'd have never known otherwise; he refused to lose them already.

Words were a secondary plan. "Christine, is the meal to your liking?"

She gave a single nod but refused a look as she continued to poke at the food on her plate.

Narrowing his stare on her, he insisted, "You were so willing to speak your mind earlier, and now you are sullen. Shall I form my own assumptions as to why?" He could draw only one conclusion, however much he preferred to be wrong. "The hours grow late; night approaches. You fear a monster coming to you again and forcing you to submit to his desires."

Her eyes met his with a hint of annoyance he had not expected. "You're so certain in my thoughts and feelings, and yet you are wrong."

"Indeed?" he posed doubtfully. "I came to you as a brute last night and demanded submission. It was…a degradation. I _forced you_ to satisfy me. One would assume you would be apprehensive to repeat the scene."

"Why?"

With an abruptness that made her gasp in surprise, he struck his palms against the tabletop and caused plates to rattle and quake, snapping, "Because it was _wrong_. You would preach on a moral high ground for murder, but sexual abuses do not count the same? Worse because I have no excuse save my own wanting? Monsters take, Christine, and I was a monster with you last night."

As he rose from the table, he noted her anxiety increase, her hands fisted to white knuckles upon armrests, and he softened his expression and every detail of his demeanor. Fear wasn't what he wanted, but it was just too easy to inspire it.

"I took," he said as he halted before her petrified form, "and gave you nothing in return." His palms set atop her knuckles, and he guided her chair to face him, his eyes racing ravenous caresses over skin that had reddened with her anxiousness. "Perhaps I should rectify that mistake."

She didn't speak, but he saw no refusal in her urgent gaze as he knelt on the floor before her. This was supplication and reverence, a need for penance as strong as a need to please her.

"Christine," he breathed, and his hands slid beneath the hem of her skirt, caressing sweet, small ankles on heated paths up the curves of her legs. She was trembling, her breaths in gasps in the air, as his fingers found her pantaloon-covered thighs and their parted invitation. Her blue eyes were upon his, and it was a strange thrill. No blindfold, no hindrance to a look and equally no blame this time, no fear to give him guilt. He only saw desire in a hazy fog, pink lips parted to release little cries. She wanted, and he was eager to give it to her.

His fingertips found her womanhood, stroking her and feeling the wetness seep through pantaloons to tease his skin. It was always an amazement to experience that undeniable proof and know she wanted him. His Christine, his sweet angel _wanted him_. How he burned!

A mask was an encumbrance, but he dared not remove it without a blindfold to conceal. And so arching near, he could only cover the smooth flesh above her neckline with an eager tongue, licking a tender path and feeling her heartbeat speed its pace.

"Erik," she whispered with a cry to proclaim passion, and he shuddered.

"Yes, yes, you wanted a mortal man's name, some distinctive word to call me and pretend it suited. Say it now, Christine. It is a heavenly blessing in your voice. Say my name, and make it an utterance of your desire. Oh, Christine, make your wanting known. Tell me that I am the one you want."

"I want_ you_, Erik," she insisted with a gasp. "_Please_."

His fingers stroked harsher, rubbing languid circles through her pantaloons and feeling her every shiver of delight. "Look in my eyes, Christine. Look at _me_, not the makeshift angel in your head. See _me_, and want me still."

She did not protest, locking eyes with his and never daring to let lids flutter closed. To him, it was as beautiful as it was provocative to see desire, raw and unguarded, desire that was solely his. He ached in reply, and yet his own felt inconsequential, unimportant with her at his fingertips.

Keeping her gaze, he commanded, "Don't look away, not even as you find pleasure. I want to see you explode. I want you aware _who_ controls your passion."

Harder with intent, he caressed and savored every fevered cry as pleasure came. He could see ecstasy radiate in those blue depths, and as much as he envied her release, he adored it.

"Beautiful, _ange_," he breathed with one last stroke of her wetness before he drew away.

"Erik," she breathlessly bid, never looking away, and he saw emotions, ones he knew he did not deserve as his.

Rising on shaky knees, he looked away from her hopeful features. "Go to your room, Christine. Go to bed. That is enough for tonight."

She did not obey, seated still, and he felt her stare begging him to change his mind. But with a decided nod, he fled to the music room and closed himself inside. No, he was through playing games of desire and make believe. He wanted too much for it to ever be acceptable.

With a weary heaviness to every breath, he leapt heart-first into the music and let it be consolation and ally. His fingers still burned where her wetness had seared skin, and so he beat piano keys until his hands were numb with the pressure. Harder, harder, and why could he still recall the heat of her body, the softness, the smoothness, the scent? He felt afflicted with a disease called desire, and it only consumed more and more until every organ and cell was infected. Damn her!

Erik did not know how long he sought to be lost in music's embrace. Minutes, an hour, two? Time was a traitor in the sphere of music's possession, so he never kept track. Perhaps he would have stayed a victim all night, but he _felt_ her watching him play again. He had never heard the door opened, but as he halted and spun about on the piano bench, she was there, cowering back in the threshold to endure his glare.

"Oh…" He sighed to look at her. She wore only the white, silk nightdress he had provided in her wardrobe, her hair a curtain of curls down her back, and though she seemed nervous for his reaction, she also seemed adamant. He was curious to learn why. "Come to me, _petite_." An angel's voice. Had he spoken to her in its tone since he'd first taken her? He'd kept up pretenses even when the gentle, adoring angel was what he longed to be.

Christine felt intoxicated. It was the pleasure and then the music calling her from her room and back to him and then his mismatched eyes, one vibrant blue and one emerald green, piercing a path into her skin. She should hate him as sense argued, but how could one hate a heart so passionate, so blatantly exposed that she couldn't deny it? Love, his eyes showed love, and she was desperate to know what that meant.

Tiptoeing close along the soft carpet, she studied the features of his masked face, wishing she could find her answer. Love without ever speaking the word in case it suffocated and destroyed her. Love…love the man who had manipulated and stolen her… It seemed doomed.

With never a word, she knelt at his feet, wringing shaking hands upon her lap. "You said that if I wanted something, I need but ask for it. Do you remember?"

"And you asked for reign of the house, which I gave."

"Yes," she agreed. "May I ask something else?"

He narrowed a biting glare at her and spat, "Is it to be let outside? That seems the logical next request. And how long until you ask to be set free? Use your feminine wiles and my own desire against me and seek to get what you truly want."

Christine was taken aback, hastily shaking her head. Outside… That hadn't even seemed an option, and it bothered her to realize she wasn't fighting for freedom. Freedom wasn't even a consideration. It _should be_.

"What's wrong?" he snapped, and hands darted out, catching hers and clasping in a tight, brutal hold. "Are you upset because I found you out? A deception to escape a madman. It's fitting that I've not only taught you desire; I've taught you to lie."

"No, no, stop. That isn't it at all," she contended and yet sounded weak against his already determined convictions.

"No? Then what do you want, Christine? What have you come to me to request?"

"A kiss," she blurted out before courage faltered, and she saw the simple word travel like a bolt through him.

"A…kiss? What are you saying?" He seemed urgent to read some unspoken threat that did not exist, his hands gripping firmer and fingertips digging into her knuckles.

Apprehension kept a waver in her voice, but she timidly insisted, "You've never kissed me. For all the intimacies we've shared, never a kiss. …Will you kiss me now?"

"Kiss you?" he urgently retorted. "You speak it as if it is merely an action and so easily granted. I cannot kiss you with the mask in place, and my misshapen mouth upon yours is heinously inspired. Don't you agree? My lips, as deformed as they are, have no right to yours."

"And yet they've claimed my body," she reminded with a heated blush.

"Without permission. Claimed, taken, stolen, but never of _your_ choice or decision. A kiss…a kiss is shared. Every intimacy I've given you has been about pleasure, and a kiss has nothing but damnation at its core."

"Erik, please," she whispered. It was the one manipulation in her arsenal as she saw him once again relish his given name on her lips. He likely thought she did not notice, but every time it was spoken, he gave a similar response as if he couldn't fathom she could articulate the word.

And yet even his overt pleasure did not sway him. "You can't save the world with a kiss, Christine. Kisses do not break magic spells or lead the path to happy endings. My kiss is a _poison_; it will contaminate you. You look for love from the man who is destroying you. …Not every story is a fairytale, my naïve child, and not every soul can have salvation."

Perhaps she _already_ was contaminated, but she couldn't worry about moral choices now. Confusion would have been the only result, and she needed certainty and the bravery it brought.

He wasn't going to change his mind; she saw his resolve in place. A kiss, a sin, salvation. She didn't care about consequences anymore. Removing his mask felt like a betrayal; she left its obstruction and let him think he had won the battle. A kiss was impossible in its proper form. Lips could not meet, but she was not about to allow a mask, a manmade barrier, to take her chance. Before he could realize her intent, she lifted herself on her knees and pressed a feather-light kiss to his exposed jaw.

She felt him tense at first contact, hissing, "No," as his hands squeezed hers, and yet he did not draw away as if desperate to learn what she intended next. Trembling through every inch, she pressed soft kisses to his chin and his cheek, to the mask where it hid his upper lip and attempted to find the lower. A tentative brushing was all she could manage, but it was enough to send a start through his body and make him jerk away.

"No, no," he moaned, and she heard tears she did not understand as she guiltily watched him leap to his feet and put necessary distance between. He was shaking so hard, pacing fitfully along the carpet, and as he fixed tear-filled eyes on her, he demanded in desperation, "Why must you be so tender with me?"

The question was thick with self-loathing, and it hurt her to bear its weight. Before she could reply, an apology upon her tongue, he snapped, "Go to bed _now_!" And when she didn't obey, still a tight bundle of quivering limbs on the floor, he lunged at her, fierce enough to have her stumbling to her feet with unwanted fear as he shouted, "Go to bed, or I will put you there myself!"

She held his flaming glare a moment more, urgent to refuse, but he took a peremptory step closer, large hands raised and open to grab. She spun about and ran for escape without pause, tears filling her eyes even as she knew no fault. No, she'd done nothing to regret. …All she had done was care; apparently, he had decided it was as adverse as a physical assault. A kiss should leave no mark; why did it feel as if she'd bruised him and scripted purples in her wake?

Christine did not pause until she reached her room, and shutting herself inside, she collapsed to the carpet as tears welled and overwhelmed. Oh God, …who was this man? He was broken, and he seemed to want her to be broken the same. He didn't want a heart to love him; he wanted a heart he could contort in his hands, to wring feelings out of it and decide which pleased him at the moment, and she hated how willingly she had fallen into his snare.

* * *

Secret rooms had their advantage. When confined by walls and mirrors, Erik could not tempt himself with the pleasure of a touch. Her skin was out of reach, and touching meant cold panes and smooth walls, not silken softness. It was a meager solace to watch her sleep that night, to gaze at lips so pink and soft and imagine how they'd felt. Kisses upon his masked face… They had been freely granted, never a coercion. Why could she not understand the power of his guilt? He didn't deserve kisses.

Huffing in aggravation, he stalked the small space with an inability to keep still. If he were wise, he would have locked himself in, cut temptation at its source and make it impossible to crack and flee to her at first chance. It was too intoxicating to resist. She had offered, and a refusal had been from better judgment, not desire. Desire begged to surrender, to meet those soft lips with his, never mind the misshapen details. Devour as if it would be his only chance to know a kiss.

And what if he went to her now and yielded? Her room was dark except for the flimsy strip of glow from the hallway. Dear God, she had left the door ajar as if an invitation! Didn't that make it acceptable? To go to her, to remove the mask in shadows, to _kiss her_ and let heart and soul meet in the contact.

The debate raged on and tortured at every fantasy until a small whimper caught his ear and had him halting to press palms to the glass plait between them, seeking her image with unqualified fear. She was restless, tossing and turning beneath the covers. He knew her symptoms well. A nightmare. How often had he suffered such an affliction? And as another cry met him, he could not let her endure whatever horrors her mind spun when she was most vulnerable and unable to fight back.

Without a thought, Erik left his sanctuary and rushed in through the ajar door, fleeing to her bedside as a desperate necessity. She was yet lost, tears slipping from sealed lashes to smear her cheeks and wet her pillowcase, and trembling, he dared brush them away.

"Christine, _ange_, wake up," he gently crooned, carefully leaning over her. If temptation was a touch, then leaning over her bed was a dangerous flame to tease. "Christine…"

She cried, a sob catching her breath, and even as her lids fluttered and lifted, he wondered if she was still consumed in the fog of her subconscious.

"Christine," he tried again, certain the mediocre light did nothing to help his case and convince her of reality. A masked man leaning over her bed… Wasn't that a nightmare unto itself?

Smoothing her curls back from wet cheeks, he bid, "You were having a nightmare. What you saw wasn't real. You're safe now."

In a whimper, she revealed, "I saw your face."

Erik's hand froze, halted on her brow as he curled fingers into his palm and pulled away. Pain, …yes, _this_ was pain and one far greater than any physical attack. "Yes, I guess that _would be_ a nightmare."

But to his shock, her hand suddenly came free of the covers and darted toward his mask. Without thought, he caught her wrist in midair and pinned it back against the mattress, digging his fingers into her skin.

"What are you doing?" he roared, temper aroused only further with her incessant tears. He held her down, bending over her in a way that screamed danger. Damn her! She had put _herself_ in this spot, watching him with wide, horrorstricken eyes that had only just suffered the vision of scars on their flip side. "Is it truly necessary to see your nightmare brought to life?"

Before he could continue with the berating in his head, her unbound hand went to continue the task the other had failed to achieve, rising to his mask as he leapt back and grabbed willful fingers. With a fierce growl, he forced both arms back to the mattress, holding tight and pressing her down.

"What has come over you?" he raged as she struggled to be free, fighting him with sobs he could not fathom. A nightmare had sparked this? Was she still half-lost to its pictures and unable to comprehend reality?

"Christine!" he shouted as she tried with desperation to break his grasp. She was stronger than he had anticipated, and with a grunt, he climbed atop the mattress to hold her down, denying the voice within that insisted against it. His fisted hands clasped her forearms tight enough to leave marks, and yet still she sought to raise her hands, twisting her body beneath his with a desperation he didn't understand.

"Damn you! Stop this madness!" he yelled, dropping his lower body against hers to make her still and restrain her with his weight.

But his actions had the consequence of putting him nearer to temptation and a flame, …nearer to hands that fought for freedom. One sudden jerk, and she managed to lift one enough to catch the corner of his mask, ripping it away before he could stop her.

"Christine!" he roared, lifting her arms and then thrusting her back against her pillow. His mask was tossed somewhere between covers. He couldn't hide his face, couldn't sever her fixed stare.

Fine! She had wanted to see it after all! He gave a deliberate growl and did not dull the fire of his fury. "A nightmare you said! Well, my foolish child, relive it in reality! See the monster in all his heinousness! Is it as ugly as you recall? I've spared you a sight of it with blindfolds, made kisses against your body with these disfigured lips instead of curses and abominations! And you have the audacity to destroy the illusion! Is this your nightmare then, Christine? Brought to life before you?" As he demanded, he shoved her against the pillow again and ground his body harder against hers, burying her into the mattress.

She cried those unstopping tears, sobbing softly as she stared, and yet she shouted back, "I saw your face, and it was _perfect_. And it was a nightmare worse than reality could ever bring!"

A jolt shot through his limbs, his hold on her loosening with the revelation. "Perfect… Then it was a dream, not a nightmare."

"No, a nightmare. You were perfect and unmarked, and you didn't want me." Shaking her head among tangled curls, she insisted, "And it hurt me; it broke my heart… You were perfect, and you weren't mine."

Erik stared at her in stunned silence, wondering if he could call her words a lie, but she had relaxed against him now that the mask was gone. Even if dark made shadows and veiled the depth of atrocities, they were still present, and she did not recoil or show disgust. She stared at his face as if in relief that it was as horrendous as remembered.

Stammering over words, he demanded, "Broken…hearts, you speak to _me_ of broken hearts? You speak _sins_ and tragedy, and I truly have destroyed you! How dare you hurt and want the man who abducted your life? How dare you ask for kisses and lay against me without even a flicker of fear or abhorrence? You _should_ hate me! You should blight and curse me and never forgive the sins I've committed against you! _How dare you_!"

Tears spilled down her cheeks again, and his eyes were riveted to their presence. _He_ was causing them; _he_ was inciting regret. She cared, and he couldn't wrap his mind about it and call it a blessing, so he forced his guilt upon her shoulders instead. _No_! Before he could ruin everything, he dragged his focus to pink lips, and without permission, he pressed his misshapen mouth to their perfection. She had asked for a kiss; that was how this had started. Well, he'd suffer for eternity if he didn't give it to her.

Christine stiffened with surprise, expecting pain instead. Anger had _pain_ as a consequence, not a kiss, not lips firm to hers and yet tender at the same time. His mouth had been no more than abnormal shapes without full light to illuminate, and to feel it, oddly-textured, chilled, bloated, she did not draw away. She kissed him back because of every oddity.

A moan vibrated those misshapen lips and tingled the surface of her skin with its desperation. She was half-afraid that when sense returned, he would end this and ridicule her for it, so she kissed harder, eager. She made a kiss mean more than anything ever had and fought to make him feel it as well.

Hands… She wanted to touch him, and as she tugged gently, his hold on her wrists broke and relaxed as if he'd forgotten he had her pinned. She was tentative, terrified one wrong move would make this end, and as his lips moved over hers and urged her to follow, she touched fingertips to his cheekbones, one smooth and one demented. He shuddered and whimpered against her mouth, but fingers were all she allowed, gentle and delicate, forming identical paths along either side of his face. From cheeks to jaw and slipping into his hair to caress his nape. She'd never touched another person so intimately, so saturated in her heart, and she'd never wanted to. For the first time, emotion pulling from her soul guided and encouraged, promising that there was no sin in fingers and no fault in lips.

Something within begged her for more, and her hand grew courageous enough to cup the full expanse of his damaged cheek, her palm fitting to scars and learning their unique shapes. A whimper became a cry, escaping as his tongue found its own courage and licked lightly at her lips, teasing her to open and let him taste.

Christine felt sensation race through her body, burning as his tongue trailed hers and urged it to dance. Her hips instinctively writhed, arching up as he pressed down and reminded her of his desire. She could feel it, digging at her through layers, posing wanting and threatening to take. She couldn't imagine denying it; she didn't _want to_ deny it.

His tongue delved one last time before he drew away. She cried out in disappointment, clutching his shoulders with urgent hands that couldn't bear to find empty air instead.

"Is that what you were after?" he hoarsely gasped in the meager space between lips. "And did you feel my heart in that kiss, Christine? There is no going back now; if you've changed your mind and abhor what you've released, it's too late. That is _love_. …Love," he repeated, and melancholy appeared.

Cringing in a revulsion he could not stifle, he abruptly lifted his body from her soft curves and sought his mask with shaking hands. "You…you see this face…this monstrosity, and yet you kissed me back. Was it only an act of obedience? As manipulated as your presence in my home? My God, Christine, I could convince myself that you wanted it if I try hard enough. …You seemed as if it was requited."

With his face hidden, he could take confidence again and clutch it between his hands. Looming at her bedside, he scrutinized her kiss-swollen lips and felt the reminiscent pressure of their shape to his. A kiss wasn't supposed to be his, and now all he could want was to feel it again!

"Erik," she gently called, and her small hand timidly reached and found his, her fingers sweetly tender as they grazed his knuckles. And he allowed it because it felt strong. A hand alone was heavy and worthless, but with hers to anchor, he felt every gap in an agonized heart fill and solidify. Love…, he'd called it love. It had always been love for him, or so he'd thought. But now…_this_ was love, and it was so much more than he'd ever believed it could be.

"Go to sleep, Christine," he bid, the emotion thick in his voice and giving him away in its telling. "You shall have no more nightmares tonight. Dream of angels."

"I do," she replied in matching tone. "Angels with scars and faces too exquisite for the mortal eye to behold. My angel wears a mask to protect my mortality."

"Indeed…" Bittersweet fantasy. If only it were true! "But angels are not sinners with bloodstained hands."

Holding his eye in the dim glow, she brought his captive hand close and brushed her lips to its back as if making it something more than a sinner's hand.

Tears rose in the back of his throat. He couldn't bear this. It felt like forgiveness, and to see the emotion in her eyes and know he had not forced her to feel anything…

Abruptly disentangling, he backed toward the door, unable to look away from that blue, piercing stare. It made guilt sear and scorch within his body until desire was a curse to bear. He hated that he wanted her still.

"Goodnight, Christine," he softly bid as he edged into the hall, but a stare kept joined until he closed the door and severed its possession. Once again he put her in shadows and stole the light and hated himself for it.


	4. Chapter 4

A kiss tortured Erik and kept him from rest. He wanted someone to blame, somewhere to throw accusations and take it from his shoulders even as he was convinced every detail in this appalling scheme was his fault. And the most damning point of all was that she was falling in love with him. How bitterly contrived! His very dream, to have her and adore her, to win her love in return, and his damaged version now included locked doors and a forced severance from the rest of the world. He told himself if she did love, it was because she was such a caring and obedient girl and love came easier to her than hatred. She would always look for the good even in a creature as blighted as he was. He had the urge to punish her for that naïve heart.

Slipping out of the house before she awakened, Erik took to the city again. It was odd to note that the past weeks with Christine in his home also denoted the most time he'd ever spent out of the opera house, but space was a necessity when desire ran so thick. Wandering the dawn lit streets, he observed the world he was stealing from her with every minute he kept her locked away. People were scarce at such an hour, but they _belonged_ in this picture. _Christine_ belonged. It stung him to admit it and know he was the one keeping her from it. He could buy her everything she could ever require, give her all the love his heart could hold, but the fact remained. Love behind locked doors wasn't love at all.

And what were his options? Let her go and detach from her life? That seemed as impossible as it was moral. Destroy love at its starting point and remind her what he was? He was a monster beneath every emotion and façade. Her better judgment knew that, and perhaps it was time she recalled it.

His conscience called him ridiculous, but he ignored its voice of reason. _He_ was in control, not the willful, undetermined heart of a foolish girl. He had let heartstrings deter him from a plan to have her and keep her. No more games. He was the almighty Opera Ghost and would not be broken by love and guilt. What a toxic combination! He desired and wanted, and such things should be all that mattered. _He_ was the one to decide what game to play, _not her_.

With conviction in his steps, he stalked back belowground, comforted as soon as he was beyond revealing sunlight. The world felt exposed; how he favored the containment of the catacombs, …almost as much as coming home to someone awaiting in his house.

Erik sought her the instant he crossed the threshold. Silence and stealth were always on his side, and so he did not give himself away as he peered into her room. She wasn't there, and he had the irrational fear that he was going to find her in the torture chamber again, perhaps too far gone to be saved.

His panic hastened him along, but an answer came on its own. A few tentative pitches on the piano's keys, and then her voice, that glorious instrument, rising to meet their guiding point. Simple vocalizes, working cords that had spent the last week silent. Halting in the hall, he listened with rapt attention and admiration, recalling how long he'd spent molding her voice, taking it beyond apprehension and fear and giving it life. Now in stealing her, he had stolen the voice as well and denied the world of its brilliance when it was meant to shine.

Better judgment once again screamed that he end this and let her go, but _no_. She was his. Damn the world and that voice and _her_ if he wasn't good enough for her heart! The choice wasn't hers anyway.

With fire flaring dangerously in his veins, Erik stalked into the room and saw her jump and halt mid-phrase.

"Erik…, you were gone."

"And did you perhaps hope I'd never come back? Or were you anxious to see me, to feel me, to kiss me again? I have been haunted by that kiss!" he admitted in a vehement rush. "And if I want another and another, what will you say? Will I have to remind you that you are a prisoner at my will, or will _you_ ask like the last time? Will you take my authority from my hands and strip me of my power? My God, Christine, you make me _weak_, and I am not supposed to _be weak_. _I_ am in control, and yet you have me falling at your feet to please you. And now I return to another game. Your voice to tease me and remind me that I have been the one to silence it. I am the reason it can't sing out and free. I have caged the nightingale and forced it to cry for me alone, and you want me weak and guilty for it. You want me to become the lover you've cast me in your mind and not the monster who stole you away. You want a happy ending from a man who molds tragedies. Any story is better than reality."

"No, I-"

"So let's bring reality back to the forefront," he decided and came to stand near enough to glimpse her every tremble. "I want you with a passion that consumes me. I sought to make you equally a slave to it, but you gave me love instead. A kiss… Passion is a darkness that infects me, and love…love is my saving grace. But I don't deserve to be saved, and I will take one even if I refuse the other."

Erik ran a feverish caress over her with his gaze, reading anxiety in every tensed muscle, but he did not waver, plainly stating, "The Opera Ghost may be a sinner, but he has _never_ raped. _Never_, Christine. And yet I can now see what drives a man to commit such a crime. I want you so much… I've been tender with you; I have given you pleasure. And this…you may refuse, but I am _aching_. I didn't want to treat this as a punishment or a manipulation, but if I must…" How he hated even suggesting such a thing, not when his heart insisted he'd never hurt her, but even as his disdain was evident, he asked, "Will this have to be by force, Christine?"

She shivered and nervously bit her lip, furtive in quick glances to his demanding stare, but she replied in a steady whisper, "No, not by force."

Desire became an inferno with that one admission, and yet his plan fell at the same time. He'd wanted this to be only lust, only a means to regain control, and yet was control ever further beyond his grasp? _Love_…this was about love. Argue as much as he liked; love was the core and always had been.

He called it a triumph to catch her hand in his and find her willing and pliant, allowing him to guide her to her bedroom with the slightest shy smile, as if this was not only acceptable but reciprocated. Halting their steps in the center of her room, he brought that captive hand to his body and pressed it to his manhood. It hardened and grew to meet her, and he thrilled to feel no trepidation in her touch as she curled her fingers about its width.

Leaving her to stroke as she would, he lifted his hands to her hair and unbound thick curls to fall free and untamed. He wanted their silk between his fingers, teasing and clasping his knuckles with their coils, and as his fingertips emerged to graze her nape, he was overcome with a desperation to kiss her.

Blindfold, yes, if he covered her eyes, he could remove the mask and act out the desire, but as he reluctantly disentangled and sought it, she called with a sharp edginess that had him stalling to face her, "No. Don't. I don't want it."

"What do you mean you don't want it?" he demanded back. "It's necessary. If I don't cover your eyes-"

"I saw your face last night, and I still kissed it and touched it. Please don't take my eyes. I want to see you."

"You forget this is _my_ game, and we play by _my _rules. I will not subject either of us to the grotesque canvas of my body or the mockery of a face I am cursed to possess. You should be grateful. Pretending is so much easier when the images of horror are out of reach."

Bringing the scarf to her, he endured the disappointment in her stare only an instant before erasing it away with cashmere. No blue eyes to watch, no decency to uphold, and removing his mask, he did not hesitate to find her lips, holding her as she swayed with the unexpected assault. Mouths devoured, and he was amazed at the undimmed wanting in her. She did not choose coy or modest, did not kiss like a lady. She kissed like a lustful woman awakened to the sensuality she owned, and it drove him mad to push her further, to make her exceed limits and see the passion engulf her.

One kiss became two and three, then a dozen. His tongue tasted, and he shuddered to feel hers taste back, trailing his misshapen lips before slipping inside. She was all fire and temptation, passion untapped and raw, and she seemed eager to succumb and learn every detail at his hands.

Her fingers had their own agenda and touched his face in long, idle caresses, and he felt the shock travel his entire body, moaning into her mouth and dragging her flush to his body. He ached to wrap every inch of her about him and never uncoil, to be forever joined and consumed by her, _only her_.

Dragging his lips away, he shamelessly begged, "Don't stop touching me. _Please_, Christine. I don't deserve the bliss of your touch; I don't deserve _you_, but my God, I would do anything to be worthy."

The words poured out between lips, and he was terrified that she would ask for freedom. Prove himself by setting her free, but she didn't. She only cupped his face between her palms, touching what she was blind to see and brushing delicate kisses to his mouth, his chin, the space where a nose should have been, his sunken eye socket. She made him feel worthy without proving it, and tears spilled from the corners of his eyes.

No. This was not how things were to go. He wouldn't allow tears to continue when desire should flame free, and tilting his cheek to press a kiss to probing fingers, he suddenly caught the back clasps of her gown and tore with a ferocity that had them releasing their confinement with shrill cries.

Christine gasped, but did not draw away. She kept shaking palms to his face and felt the tug of features with the effort as a gown was followed by a fiercely ripped corset. Gentle didn't seem relevant where manmade barriers were concerned, but as his fingers trailed her back and slid beneath her chemise, he was only tender. His touch was craved; every inch of her skin reacted. Fingers followed the line of her spine and splayed wide at its curve, guiding her hips against his. Desire spiraled waves through her head to take away any lingering doubt. She wanted him; she cared; maybe she loved. The only source of apprehension was a blindfold, and she cursed its presence. It stole every image that should be hers.

As misshapen lips made kisses along her neck, and she cried out and arched nearer, she had a fleeting idea of ripping the blindfold away as carelessly as every other boundary. Why was she being obedient? She had already seen his face and his body; disgust was trivial. And he wouldn't know unless she proved it. But how to remove the mask he'd bestowed upon her without tempting fury in her wake…

She bided her time, seeking the buttons of his shirt with clumsy fingers, encouraged when he eagerly allowed her to undress him. It was faith, however minimal, but she was determined that it would grow.

Christine fumbled with his tie and more buttons at his cuffs, but he aided her discarding, and she finally had the damaged expanse of his chest at her fingertips. She adored this body, more so _because_ of its scars. She followed the lines and distortions, plotted out already behind her lids and felt the thrill of a heart racing beneath her palm.

"You touch me like you want me," he gasped, hands fisted again in her hair. "Do you, Christine? Or have I conjured the entire scene?"

"I want you," she conceded, and as her palms dragged long caresses down his stomach, she savored his immediate hiss and groan. "May I touch you, Erik?"

In raspy, broken syllables, he replied, "My body is yours. Do what you will."

Shivering delight, she unclasped his pants and slid her hands beneath, finding the swollen proof of his aching. That angel's voice she so adored was concealed in husky breaths that surrounded every moan, but as he muttered her name, she smiled and encircled his hardness with her palm. Caresses with one hand while the other trailed back up along spans of scars, following one of the longest to the hollow of his throat, and as she leaned close to kiss the spot, he cried out and arched nearer.

This was it, the point when she had him at her mercy, so desperate for her touch that she doubted he possessed the strength required for self-denial.

In an enticing whisper, she bid, "I want to see you." Before he could refuse, her free hand jerked the blindfold up and off, and she fixed hazy blue eyes on his aghast, unhidden face.

"Christine…"

She glimpsed shock, desire, uncertainty, and at its end, that unwanted anger, but she kept unswayed and let her eyes take in every scar and disfigurement without regret.

"I can't…read your expression," he stammered, his entire body stiff and rigid with growing terror. "I don't understand it. What…what sort of pretense is this? I know there are lies, but I can't find the telltale crack. I can't…find it. What…what game is this?"

Every statement grew in frustration until he jerked away from her, severing touch and every pleasant emotion in between.

"Erik," she tried in gentle tone, "It hardly seems fair that you rid yourself of your mask, and yet I am not allowed the same. I am looking at _you_, and there is no disgust or fear."

But to her horror, her words had no impact as his mind seemed to be dragging him down different corridors, and with a suddenness that made her start, he snapped, "Not afraid? Not disgusted? Or the guise of a good actress. Look at me. _Look at me_!"

Without hesitation, he stood before her and dropped defenseless arms, exposing every mark upon his chest and a corpse's face. She didn't want fear, but the rage was glinting dangerously in those eyes and teased her apprehension.

"What do you see, Christine? And an honest answer would be appreciated. Don't you dare fill my ears with saccharine nonsense about the beauty of my soul shining through. I am _ugly_, a _freak_, a _monster_. At least have the decency to admit it. You were so anxious to deny yourself the escape I gave. Did you not consider I was trying to spare us _both_ from this scene? You could pretend beauty behind the blindfold and angels. What will you do now? Will you kiss the corpse and welcome him to your arms? Foolish girl!"

Growling low in his throat, he caught her wrists even as instinct had her backing away and yanked her to his body. "You wanted to see the monster," he taunted, "and a monster you shall have. Show me fear. Good girls are afraid of monsters, you know? There is no fairytale that ends with a princess and a monster happily sharing kisses and forever. Princesses scream in terror and run from monsters. So will you scream for me, Christine? Will you cry those beautiful tears and plead with me not to take your virginity? It's suiting. I should have expected nothing less."

He twisted her wrists at the small of her back, keeping her captive to him, and without a thought, she did the only thing she could to set things to right. Holding his ferocious stare one last breath, she pressed her lips to his, hard and demanding with only a tremble to insist she wasn't as courageous as she pretended to be. He had said a kiss couldn't change the world when she had first made the request; she was determined to prove him wrong. A kiss was a transformation of every detail if it was felt to the heart, and she did not hesitate to kiss him with every ounce of passion in her blood.

She felt his surprise for a long, stunned moment before he kissed her back and let her reckless abandon take him on the tide with her. Her tongue teased his lips as before, but this time, it held meaning; this time, she opened her eyes as she dared and saw the reaction he gave to every passionate endeavor. She licked at the grotesque swell of his upper lip, and he cried out, parting and eager for her to taste him, to deepen every attempt into something grounded in a heart's beat.

With a moan of concession, Erik lifted her with arms that still kept her hands captive and brought her to the bed. He was through denying this need, and as far as he was concerned, it was too late for her to change her mind. She had enticed him to this, and God help him, he wasn't about to refuse.

Pushing her back onto the edge of the mattress, he released her if only to finish undressing her. Impatience created more rips and tears as fabric resisted and was defeated. He did not stop until she was bare, his ravenous eyes trailing every creamy detail and denoting her body as _his_.

Up the flawless column of her throat, and he was almost afraid to meet her constant stare, knowing she gazed in return and saw ugliness as he saw beauty. He expected disappointment, disgust, every lingering betrayal the truth held, but he found none of those things. He found warmth and desire and a tenderness he was certain couldn't be for him. He clung to such emotions as salvation and finished disrobing at her bedside.

Fear appeared. He saw it the instant it flickered to life, and it was shocking that its inspiration was the only part of him that bore no distinction to dub it odd. This was the shy, innocent fear of a virgin, and he savored it because it was so _ordinary_.

Erik did not take her right away as his body begged. He pressed his hands to her ribcage and guided languid caresses along her skin. He wanted perfection from a moment he had never believed he would have, and it felt imperative to memorize every nuance. He was a sculptor, molding every glorious curve of her body into existence. His fingers stalled at her breasts, teasing their hardened peaks and thrilling as she writhed and gasped. _Perfection_. Every detail of her and every emotion he carried simply to caress her and feel her respond.

As his hands stroked her thighs and slipped between, she murmured, "Please, Erik." His answer was to slide his fingers deep within and make her cry out.

A deep moan came from the core of his desire as he rasped, "My God, how you want, Christine! You are so wet and aroused for _this_ body, no illusion to soften the harsh edges. You want _me_." He could not keep the surprise from his assessment. "I never believed you'd be willing, not without some sort of fabrication to make it acceptable. And your only hesitation lies in the taking. You're afraid."

She did not deny his words, but as if in challenge, her hand reached for him and brushed along his chest, thrilling the surface of his skin. Such innocence amidst passion's spell, and as her fingers timidly graced his hardness from distended tip to root, he shuddered.

"Christine," he hissed, and clinging tight to any shred of control remaining, he stated, plain and inarguable, "I sought to awaken this desire in you. I _knew_ it must rival my own, but you would have buried it beneath a veneer of propriety. You would have denied me, but I lit a flame and stoked it to life. You want me, and you can't deny it, not as it coats my fingers. You see a corpse in all its horror, and you want it to make love to you."

"No," she corrected, holding his stare with conviction, "I want _you_, Erik. Stop making it an abomination. You are not a corpse or a monster; you are a man, and I want you without regret. Don't doubt me."

She asked for the impossible; doubt seemed unavoidable, but he held her gaze and stretched out on the mattress, pulling her warm, soft body to his and pressing her flush to his length. He cried out to know flawless flesh against him and knew he couldn't hold back any longer. How long this desire had simmered, driven back and forth from its boiling point without complete fulfillment! Now it would be his.

"God did not mean for man to suffer this ache alone," he bid as he parted her willing legs. "It was meant for _you_, Christine. _You_ are its source and its only inspiration. I've wanted you for so long. You are _everything_."

Christine wanted to reply, to grant assurances she knew he needed, but as he spoke, his hardness gently nudged at her as if he tempted them both before he took. She could focus on nothing but his intentions and instinctively arched closer, ripples of sensation coursing beneath her skin from the spot. It felt like a fever upon her flesh.

With a delirious cry, he abandoned restraint and thrust deep, and passion faded to pain. It was brilliant and consuming, suffocating her in a brutal wave, and her hands fisted against his shoulders, fingertips pressing taut into scarred skin as tension coiled through her limbs.

Words seemed beyond him as he savored what Christine could not, but as he moved gently, rocking her stiffened hips with the motion of his, he brushed kisses to her tears and cupped her face as if it were porcelain. The voice inside her head that insisted she make him stop drifted to whispers as she adjusted to his invasion. She hadn't expected such pain, not that sharp and biting, but it died away on the ebb and flow of his thrusts and left renewed desire.

He moved harder, and she gasped as his mismatched stare locked on hers, desperate to read if pain was in her response. Her answer was to arch nearer, to unflex taut fingers and slide them along his spine to clutch him close. Pain? No, this was a different kind of sensation, and it built with hastened intensity. She had no control, willingly giving it to him, and as her cries grew hoarse, he watched her with a sense of fascination. She was certain he possessed this image already, this second before she found pleasure, but he was so enthralled and rapt as if he'd never seen it…or maybe it was different when his every flaw was on display and she had bliss just the same, …as if his scars didn't matter.

His name was her peak, the only word she wanted to own, and for that instant of ecstasy with his voracious gaze on hers, she felt as if they shared the moment, as if he was _with her_ and doubt and regret no longer existed. One heart and one soul, combined and soldered together. She saw forever, and she wasn't afraid to admit she wanted it.

Walls stayed collapsed as his hands caught her hips and moved her rougher to match his thrusts. She allowed and adored every vehement expression on that distorted face. Desire danced in echoing tingles through her body, dulled enough that she could think and love through it. And when his pleasure came and she heard that angel's voice whimper her name as if he couldn't possibly deserve it, she adored him even more and ran trembling caresses along the constricted features of his face.

"Christine…," he whimpered again. "Oh, my sweet Christine…"

Tears gathered beneath her fingertips and spilled down his face, collecting in little wells between scars that she leaned to kiss away. Her lips lingered at the corner of his deeply sunken eye, stealing tears before they fell. He moaned his desolation and rocked his satiated body gently with hers as if they were permanently joined.

"I've never felt anything like this," he softly revealed, but even as his words held awe, tears still arrived and a somberness she wanted to take away. "Christine, …my existence lives and dies with you. I didn't know what it was to _feel_ until you appeared, and if I lose you…" Tears ran faster. "I _can't_ lose you. I am _nothing_ without you. Vow to me that you are mine. Now and forever, no matter what happens; say that you are mine."

"I'm yours," she replied without hesitation and did not care that each letter held its own fettered chain. "I'm yours, Erik."

He calmed with her oath, but as he disentangled bodies and limbs, she noticed the resurgence of walls. They protected a heart when she was the one to carry its destruction. One wrong word, one bitter sentiment, and it would be not only walls to tumble; it would be that heart as well.

"We…should tend to a lesson," he suddenly decided, and she shyly watched him collect clothes and dress, reapplying a mask and purposely avoiding a shared stare. …Regret, she didn't want him to regret.

"A lesson?"

"Yes, yes, it's been too long without. I cannot have all my hard work going to waste."

Instinct argued what was the point if she was to be locked away forever, but she kept the words within. They were hammers to chip at the wall and seek to scar the heart. …Then again perhaps she should have tried; he refused to acknowledge her presence as she awkwardly clutched ripped undergarments about her body.

Still without a look, he commanded curtly, "Change and meet me in the music room."

And with that, he was gone. She stared after him, unable to quell a sense of rejection. She missed the feel of his skin to hers, his heart so near. Now she felt loose without an anchor to pull her home. And it stung because for as honest as she had been, she was sure he hadn't believed a word.

* * *

Her lesson was like a doorway into the past, …a mirrored doorway that now showed itself to be a window. Working with him as an invisible angel had held advantages and disadvantages. She learned within the first few exercises that she was a lot more anxious and prone to mistakes with his intense stare to throw her. She felt immature and amateurish, and although he did not comment, she was certain he shared the thought.

But for as unnerving as it was, there was a certain sense of pleasure that came with finally glimpsing his pride in hints and the occasional unguarded glance. It kept her striving beyond her potential if only to please him further.

"Well," he concluded, sitting back from the piano's keys, "you are not as out of practice as I'd expected. Although we still have much to do."

"And what shall we work on?" she pushed with the hint of a smile. "Gounod, Meyerbeer, Massenet…?"

Any joviality vanished as he muttered distantly, "They're auditioning upstairs for _Manon_. I noticed the sign as I left the opera house this morning. Auditioning for adjunct chorus and dancers. The main roles are set, but I would have had them recast with you in the lead… We would have worked the role until you could perform it to perfection, and you would have had them all at your feet, clamoring over themselves for a touch of your hem."

His melancholy was thick and weighed on her as she offered, "We can still work the role, can't we?" It was a pathetic compromise. He was remorseful, and instead of agreeing as sense said she should, she was pacifying.

"No, no, I don't think I could bear it. I'll find you something new, something better, something that showcases your talent to its full potential. Yes, that's what I'll do."

A conversation with his guilt, and Christine kept quiet and pensive, sure anything she said would be misconstrued as more blame.

"Perhaps something from the masters in Italy," he continued. "Leave the French composers to the rabble. You need a greater challenge."

"Italian sounds divine," she agreed with a nod.

He swallowed back more words, regarding her fixedly for a long breath as she shifted beneath the power in those eyes. Finally with a huff, he declared, "You are such a good girl to humor me so readily."

"Humor you…?"

"I am no fool. I realize this charade must end sometime, and how considerate of you to play it to a tee until its climax."

"Charade…? What are you talking about, Erik?"

"Why, _this_, of course! This rapport we have as teacher and student discussing your next undertaking as if it will be learned and performed on the largest opera house stage. We play this back and forth, you know. We pretend there is something valuable here, something decent and worth saving beneath the sins. But at some point, the curtain will fall, and reality will shatter us wide open again. We'll hate ourselves and each other with no hope for reprieve. So perhaps you shouldn't be so accommodating. Perhaps _you_ should be the one with sense between the two of us."

"But…what if I would rather pretend?" she nervously pushed, wary of his temper.

"Dear God, how I've manipulated you!" he gushed with a bitter laugh. "I've used desire against you and made you dependent on it. It's pathetic in a way. You're convinced you care, but truly, Christine, who can care for the devil?"

Erik didn't await an answer as he hurried to his feet and stalked from the room. If she had an inkling of rationale left, she would stay away; he knew he could not endure another glance into eyes too blue with a mind full of images of her body beneath his, her stare as she found pleasure, the way she looked at him without disgust, with only emotion. His memory betrayed him with every bliss.

Huffing a breath, he lingered before the lit fireplace, staring at orange flames but seeing her yet. Damn this unending affliction!

"Erik…"

He tensed at merely the sound of her voice and refused to regard her. "Leave me be, Christine. Pretend can wait until later."

Silence met his command, but he did not hear a retreat.

"You said I was everything to you," she said after a moment. "Was that part of the illusion?"

"You know the answer to that."

"You love me," she declared confidently.

"I've _always_ loved you." His admission floated through the air between them as sincere as it was cursed, and when silence stretched again, he prayed she would leave it at that. …He should have known better.

"But if I say the same, you won't believe me," she concluded, so soft and anguished that he finally surrendered to a look. The somber despair creasing her pretty features felt wrong.

"What are you trying to say, Christine? I've no patience left to decipher the workings of your inner mind. Lord knows I've wasted hours in that task and with never a real answer to call mine. …But why are you crying?" His compassion flamed with the glisten of her tears, and he denied an urge to approach and brush them away as he spat, "What have I done to make you cry? …Or do I already know? I guess tears are warranted for innocence lost."

Shaking her dark head, she insisted in a rush, "I could speak my mind and my heart, and you will denounce them. You'll call me naïve and refuse to believe the truth."

"What truth? What are you talking about, silly girl? Such dramatics, and for what?" He narrowed his stare and sought to unravel her in a look alone, but she cried still and all he saw was pain.

"I love you," she admitted in a voice that wavered with her tears. "You are _everything_ to me a well. I loved you as an angel, and now…I love you still." A sob choked her words as she accused, "And you don't believe me."

No, he didn't. He watched emotion, pure and untainted before him, and yet even as his heart longed to clutch it and hold tight, he couldn't. "You don't love me, Christine. You…don't know any better. I've skewed your perception of the world and your life by containing you here and chaining you to me. You think you love me because love makes every facet of this crime acceptable."

"No," she whimpered, hugging her body with shaking arms.

"Once you are back in the world, you will see that everything you felt while in these walls was a manipulation. …Dear Lord, what I've done to you…" Swallowing back his own rise of tears, he concluded again, "When you are back amongst people and have freedom at your fingertips, you will understand."

"Back? But I thought…" She stammered broken phrases and shook her head in an adamant refusal. "But…I want to stay with _you_."

"Me? But I am a monster, and you have proven right this moment that the dreaded end has come," he vehemently argued. "Pretend is impossible when one of the players _believes_ in it as scripture. The game is over."

"You are _not_ a monster."

"No?" he posed doubtfully. "I locked you down here and stole your life."

"I came with you _willingly_," she protested, swiping tears with the backs of her hands. "That very first night, I followed you into the passages with never a struggle or a doubt."

"You followed an _angel_."

"No, it was _you_; it was always _you_. The only lie was in the name, and now that you are Erik to me, the feelings have not changed." She was adamant, and he was taken off-guard, thrown from his platform as he fought to collect his argument together again.

"I…I tied you to a bed and abused you," he heaved back, and yet not even that swayed her.

"There was a sin somewhere in the midst of that," she conceded. "And yet you gave it a new definition. You saturated it in adoration and love. You didn't hurt me; you wanted to please me."

"It isn't forgivable."

"What is there to forgive if I never condemned you?" she insisted. "You condemned _yourself_. You buried your heart somewhere beneath a blame I didn't place upon you, and you won't love me because of it."

"I _do_ love you!" he shouted and was surprised when she didn't recoil. "But you underestimate my faults. You think you can love _me_, Christine?" Shaking his head, he suddenly caught her arm and pulled her after him down the hallway with her room at its end.

"Where are we going?" she demanded, but he didn't reply. Halting before the nearest wall, he kept her in a viselike grip and reached for a hidden handle. It appeared as a panel when in reality, it was a door, and as it swung open, he dragged her inside.

"Here, look! See my secrets, Christine," he snapped and abruptly released her before a plate of glass.

Christine peeked through and realized immediately that it was her mirror, a window into her bedroom. Beneath a furrowed brow, she asked, "What is this?"

"I watch you," he admitted without shame. "Whenever I want, whenever I feel the need to look upon you, I watch from behind mirrors _again_. Doorways into your life that I shouldn't step through. Perhaps I should have confined myself solely to this side, gazed at you with never a touch. You could have remained unsullied and pure, and I could have spent the rest of my days as your rapt observer. But I grew envious of the air around you, of every object allowed to touch your skin, of every moment you existed that I could not share. I fell to temptation. I took you from your dressing room and another mirror to place you on the other side of more. I made windows, and I peeked through them, and yet I also broke their barriers and touched. I took what wasn't mine."

"I gave freely." Though she spoke it with conviction, her mind debated. Was this a violation, or was this only further proof of a damaged heart? "You lingered behind my dressing room mirror because you were perpetuating the lie. An angel and a face always hidden. But I've seen your face, and why then did you still choose to watch me from afar? I've given you no reason to stay away."

"A conscience gives me reason enough. I detest its every utterance, but it twists my heart into knots. I couldn't bear to look into your eyes." Laughing bitterly, he stated, "Murder is justifiable compared to what I've done to you. I could kill with ample excuses, but you… There is no valid excuse for the heart, and if I say I love you, how dare I destroy you so callously?"

"Erik…," she whispered his name and listened only to her heart. "I love you…"

Clasping her shoulders, he forced her to the glass and made her fix her stare on the details of her room. "And did you love me when I found you in the torture chamber and began a nightmare? When I pressed touches upon you? When I made you touch me? When I silenced your gift and locked you away? When I claimed your body? Did you love me through every ugly moment? You say you love me still; well, love means accepting a monster's every flaw. It means being strong, and it means looking and seeing the truth. Prove to me that your eyes are open, Christine."

His hands released her, and without allowing a response, he stalked out of the secret room. All she had as a farewell was a slammed front door and the click of a lock. Once again, she was alone.


	5. Chapter 5

The last thing Christine recalled was desperately trying to wait up for Erik's return, but the events of the day took their toll. As the final dream fuzzed out of focus, she realized sleep had abducted her and kept her in its spell far longer than anticipated. …And the cruelest knife to the heart was waking on the chaise in her dressing room, returned to her world.

Within the breath, she was on her feet and rushing to her full-length mirror. From this side, all she had was the vision of a lovelorn girl laden in frantic desperation, and she lightly rapped fists to the smooth surface, knocking in hopes of answer.

"Erik… _Ange_…," she pleaded with the words as tears smeared over her reflection. "No, no, please, Erik, don't leave me here."

But no reply came, nothing but the sobs of a broken heart. The opposite side of the glass held the fairytale, and she was trapped in a reality where she no longer belonged with no hope of getting back on her own.

"No," she whimpered and slid to a puddle of skirts before the mirror, pressing her cheek to the glass as if it would give solace.

He had said the game was over. Love by his rules, but he had already decided that she wasn't _allowed_ to love him as if he had a right to govern her heart. So she'd broken his rules, and by his logic, he had sent her away for it. …And if he had shut her out, she wasn't certain she could find a way back in.

Tears and sobs did not return an angel, and in a room where music had once rung fierce and beautiful, now the only sounds to be heard were echoes of despair and loneliness.

* * *

The world was a cold stranger. Christine felt disconnected from its every supposed gift and privilege. She tried. Lord help her, she _tried_ to find her place in it again, but after being a part of Erik's, she no longer fit into reality. It was bitter irony that he had insisted she open her eyes and truly _see_, and what did she see? _Nothing_. Emptiness and no promise for anything more. She knew what she wanted, and this seemed a cruel test of fate desperate to sway her.

Without anything better to occupy her, Christine returned to a life at the opera. A well-told fabrication of a sick aunt on the verge of death explained days of absence, but despite her Gala night success, the management offered her only a chorus role as they eyed her suspiciously. _Chorus_? No, she refused and asked for a spot with the ballerinas instead. Her mind taunted with thoughts of what Erik would have said to that. He'd likely fly into a rage about wasting her talent, promise that if she would but sing, he would push her up the ranks again. But singing felt impossible, her voice as fractured as her heart.

Days locked in an underground prison, and she'd been freer than she was with the world in her hands. _This_ was prison. This land of etiquette and following the line. Everything felt cold and distant, emotions unable to bloom. Erik had liberated her soul from its fears and modesties; he had taught her not to judge with her eyes but with her heart. He'd touched her inside and out and left love to tingle through every inch of her body like a lasting stain. And now was she to settle for fake pleasantries and lustful stares from random eyes? For emotions that seemed contrived in comparison when she had been taught to _feel_? For never being touched in sheer adoration again? It hardly seemed fair!

As days passed one to the next, fleeting hopes that Erik would end separation and return dwindled from her grasp. She was alone, and even if life was a disappointment, she had no choice but to be pushed along its path.

Ballet rehearsals were as remembered with a bit more soreness attached. Her body had become too adjusted to being an instrument and had to regain its litheness and ability to move gracefully across the stage. It seemed an endless challenge, and she knew why: her heart was not in a single motion. She danced like a lifeless porcelain doll, pretty but hollow, and every disapproving glare from the ballet mistress, Madame Giry, made it clear and evident to everyone that she was a hopeless case.

Dancing was supposed to be a distraction, but every time she overheard Carlotta singing onstage, her heart gave a dull ache. She wanted to sing. The longing existed so poignantly, but the voice was trapped in a box, its echoes dying away with every breath. Her life was a wasted yearning for something that would never be again.

"Christine," Meg called, chasing behind her en route to change after rehearsal, "are you all right?"

Christine met Meg's concerned stare and saw such vibrancy, such youth and joviality, the very things she herself had once had before an angel had given her more. Now she dubbed the young ballerina naïve. Believing in dreams of love seemed trite against _feeling_ love, and without it, dreams were pointless.

"Yes, of course," she distantly replied and allowed Meg to clasp her elbow and steer her to the dressing room where a handful of other girls giggled.

The topic of conversation was the same everyday, and Christine huffed discontent to bear witness again. Men. Wishes for prince charmings and discussions of the many disappointments along the way to finding perfection. The girls were well versed in what they considered _love_, falling in and out of it by the day. Christine called them fools and remained silent as she quickly changed, uncovering bruises from another day of relearning and falling along the way.

Meg noticed one vibrant purple mark and gave her a sympathetic look, though Christine doubted she could truly understand. When was the last time the little ballerina had taken a tumble mid-rehearsal in front of everyone? With a mind so full and skills so rusty, it felt anticipated rather than tragic, and quickly covering the marks to anyone else's inspection, Christine ducked her head and tried to shift attention to the conversation going on across the room.

"The stagehands are a waste of time," Jammes was saying as she drew on her gown. "They are fumbling little boys. I say, wait until the production opens. The boxes will be full to the brim with patrons, and how they adore every lifted leg and agile _pli__é_!" She giggled, eyes glistening with intimate knowledge. "The last one besotted with me was _married_. I gave him no more than a couple of innocent kisses, but he sent a gaudy gold necklace as his enticement anyway!"

Cécile joined her laughter. "Then you had him wrapped about your finger, didn't you, Jammes? I can't imagine falling in love with a married man!"

"Oh, it wasn't love! He was balding and repugnant! It turned my stomach simply to allow his hands upon me. Can you imagine loving an unattractive man? My reputation wouldn't stand for it! But if he showers trinkets, I'll play along while I await something better. My ideal man must be perfection, you know. I couldn't fathom the embarrassment of having an ugly man profess his undying affection for me."

Listening raptly beside Christine, Meg replied, "Not even for diamonds, Jammes? Could you love an ugly man if his gifts were unlimited?"

Jammes shrugged idly. "It depends _how_ ugly. If you mean plump and bald like my married patron, I suppose I could manage love, however fleeting. My heart goes where I tell it to, you know."

Controlling the heart; Christine once again considered them naïve. Not a single one knew what real love was. "And what about scarred?" she dared to speak up and yet cringed as all attention darted her way. "What if the gentleman bore scars and was deformed?"

Jammes grimaced and sneered distaste. "I wouldn't _love_ that gentleman. Really, Christine, you need to learn where to draw the line. We are young and beautiful, eyed by every man who comes to see the opera. They may be awed by the singers, but they _desire_ the dancers. And if we are to accommodate for an ample reward, we must at least choose someone worthy. A man with scars and deformities!" she cringed again with her blatant revulsion. "It would be absolutely degrading to have such a man linked with my name. I wouldn't allow it. I'd be tarnished to every patron who followed!"

Christine didn't reply as the conversation spun onward. Tarnished…, she was tarnished, but she was proud in it. To love a man like Erik… Not many would be able to do that; he'd spent so long alone and rejected by the same world he'd forced her back into. Foolishly, he hadn't realized that in loving her, he'd destroyed her ability to belong anywhere but at his side, and how she suffered for it!

* * *

Being one in a gaggle of ballerinas meant Christine had to give up her dressing room, and yet due to the rumors and whispers of the Opera Ghost, no one wanted it. They said accidents had happened years ago in that room, every inhabitant chased out by some seeming misfortune. It was dubbed unlucky, and superstition kept it empty and at Christine's disposal whenever she needed escape.

The first days after her return, she spent every spare moment within its walls, lingering before the mirror and ready for the instant Erik recanted his mistake and came for her. As rehearsals stole more and more time, she had less to mourn and less to hope, but though she did not physically await, her mind was in a state of suspension, searching for a single sign that the fabled Opera Ghost loomed about. But things were unusually quiet around the opera house, no accidents, no notes. It was as if the Opera Ghost had finally decided to quit haunting. The ballerinas, who were his most vocal fans, predicted his 'unfinished business' was completed and he'd sought his eternal slumber in the grave. Christine hated every ignorant comment past their lips. _She_ was his 'unfinished business', and she refused to believe he'd given up completely.

Her proof came at the end of a grueling day of rehearsals.

As the girls were released, Christine gratefully dropped her dancer's stance and reached for the laces of her shoes, desperate to be rid of them. Although much of her technique had returned, Madame Giry seemed to keep pushing her harder as if purposely trying to weed her out as an imposter and force her back to singing instead. How many exercises did she have to pose that were still beyond her capabilities? How many times humiliated in front of the other girls with a fall or stumble? And yet Christine couldn't begrudge the old ballet mistress for knowing where Christine's talent and soul truly laid, but she certainly had a rough way with her motherly guidance!

All Christine could imagine was slipping into her empty dressing room and lying down upon her chaise. Her cold apartment felt too far and too alone, and her feet ached to insist they would never make it if she tried, the bruise on her side from an earlier tumble throbbing dully in agreement. She was about to abandon the stage and escape her comrades in crinoline when Jammes skittered to her side and held her arm.

"Christine, don't move yet," she lowly whispered, lips curved in an unending smile.

"Why?"

"Patrons, my dear. Look."

Christine cast a furtive glance to the far edge of the stage and saw exactly what Jammes stared at in such avid fascination. Two wealthy gentlemen were being fawned and flaunted over by the opera house managers. It was not uncommon for the patrons to stop in from time to time and see that their money was being well spent, but these gentlemen seemed too fixated on the scantily-clad ballerinas, taking their leisurely time leaving the stage. One of the two had his lustful eyes locked on Christine, and with a furrowed brow, she tried to back away, but Jammes held tighter.

"Wait. That one seems to like you! Oh, don't be a prude, Christine! Maybe if we casually linger behind, he and his friend will invite us to supper. If you've already snared the one, then it is only natural that I take the other."

Jammes was insistent, her fake smile constantly intact and batted eyes thrown at the watching gentlemen.

"No," Christine flatly declared and tried to pull free again. She felt exposed, her crinoline skirt showing too much of her legs, her practice attire too form-fitting to be acceptable. _Prude_! She wasn't a prude; she simply preferred not to be paraded before any and every man wandering through the theatre.

And the only one she wanted as hers obviously mirrored the sentiment. Before Christine could argue a release, the fabled Opera Ghost made his triumphant return as a sandbag fell from the rafters and landed mere inches from the patrons. The gentlemen leapt back, and as ballerinas immediately shrieked "Opera Ghost!", Christine cast a flustered look up and only saw the quickest shadow to give away a presence.

The managers gushed apologies over the apprehensive patrons, and as a sea of crinoline skirts raced for the safety of the dressing rooms, Christine was left onstage, debating the appropriate reaction. What was she to feel? What was she to think? She hadn't had a hint of Erik's presence in two weeks, and yet she was doubtless he was behind mysteriously falling objects from the sky. Well, of course! Jealousy was potent, and despite every somber emotion in between, in his eyes, she was still his. _His_? The idea alone fueled a fire in her belly. _His_! He'd pushed her away, let her go, chose separation! And did he expect her to spend the rest of her life mourning his loss?

With determination on her heels, she suddenly charged through the opera's corridors, paying no heed to the ballerinas spreading the word of ghosts and accidents to anyone in the vicinity. No, their high-pitched hysterics didn't matter. Let them say what they would and let them be afraid of an Opera Ghost's temper. Christine was done being the same.

Bursting into her dressing room, she locked out the rest of the world and directed her aggravation to a mirror's glass. Rushing to its flawless surface, she pounded her fists and shouted, "Come out! Come out, Erik! I know you're watching me!"

No response, but she wasn't about to give up this time. Anger enticed her onward, and she struck fists hard enough to wobble the surface. "How dare you meddle in my life? You let me go! And yet you won't give me up!" Tears threatened to rip her heart apart, but she refused and hardened her exterior, shouting bitterly at her own reflection. "You are a _coward_!"

"_Coward_!" The voice appeared first in a resonant echo before the mirror trembled and swung open. She backed away with surprise and wavered to finally have him before her. But as Erik stalked into the room, all she saw was his fury.

"_Coward_?" he repeated coldly. "You or I, _ange_? Who between us has faded into the backdrop of lackluster ballerinas rather than _live your life_? You surrendered your voice, and for what? Was it purposely to spite me, Christine? Throw it all away and return to where you started? Forget everything in between? You are such a weak, little thing! Too afraid to live, too afraid to sing, too afraid to feel!"

"_Feel_!" She had been staring at him, entranced since his entrance and breathless to gaze at his hands, his eyes, his mask. But she was heaved back to reality and trembled as she revealed, "I have spent all this time dead inside because of _you_! You are the weak one between us! You gave me up because you were afraid to love me!"

It was the cruelest she had ever been with him, and she regretted it to see fiery retaliation and then flickers of pain. In a constricted voice, he muttered, "Giving you up was the _bravest_ and _strongest_ thing I've ever done. Weak would have been keeping you. A heart bound and chained cannot _love_, Christine, not when it must be free to beat."

"And yet free, mine is _broken_," she insisted, the tears finally breaking through and gathering. "You left me in this world _alone_. And did you presume I wouldn't mourn your loss? You were angel to me. Before everything else, you were my solace and my friend, my teacher, my world, and suddenly, you were gone and left me nothing. Why would I want to feel, to _sing_ when my heart is tortured?"

"Heart?" he skeptically bid, and yet she saw cracks in his armor to witness her tears. "But hearts love, and you can't love a monster, Christine. That isn't your misfortune to bear."

"Why? Isn't it _my_ choice who I love? You've decided that you are unworthy and refuse to be wrong." Edging closer to his rigid shape, she sought to fully dismantle his veneer. "You wanted me to open my eyes and truly see. I see you now, and my heart knows what it wants. Free and unfettered. I am not your prisoner or your slave. I choose without ultimatums or punishment. I choose _you_, Erik."

He shook his head, tears glistening in a mismatched stare as he concluded, "You are a fool."

No more. With a sob in her throat, Christine abruptly turned and hastened toward the door, but she never reached its escape. Strong arms caught her from behind, encircling her waist and drawing her back. Her sob ripped from within as he clutched her body tight to his and pressed his unmasked cheek to her back.

Erik breathed her scent into starved lungs, burned by her heated softness. Dear God, why had he survived without this?

"All I did to you," he hoarsely muttered, dragging his cheek to her nape, "the horror I put you through, taking, stealing, …and you love me still. I thought you'd see once you were in your world where other gentlemen could offer their hearts, but you mourned _me_. You longed for _me_, and I stayed away, kept to shadows, seeking the moment you'd awaken to life, but you were hollow inside. I hated that _I_ had done such a thing to you. The most vibrant, brilliant woman, and I'd emptied the soul out of her." Rubbing his cheek to her thick, silken bun, he continued with bursts of rage, "And then that gentleman tonight had the gall to _lust_ after you! My girl, _mine_! I took you from the ballet once, desperate to keep those filthy patrons away. How they desire with their eyes! And it is acceptable because they are handsome and wealthy, _perfect_. That one tonight looked at _you_ and saw something he wanted, and I would have killed him if he'd touched you!"

He meant every murderous word, and yet she did not make a move to break free; she leaned further into him as if she couldn't get close enough, and he indulged her, nuzzling her crown and disheveling a flawless arrangement. One hand dared to rise, and he reached for random pins, careful, _always careful_ where she was concerned. He pried every one free, and uncoiled locks meant to be loose, dragging them down about his face and thrilling in their subtle tickle.

"Christine," he breathed her name like a prayer and engraved its letters on his tongue. Oh, why had he denied this? How had he not succumb when holding her was as essential as existing?

"No," she suddenly said, and yet she did not put distance, even as she asserted, "If you intend to leave again, do it now. I will not humor you solely when jealousy inspires. You can't claim me only to be certain no one else will. If you will not love me, someone else might take your place, and will the Opera Ghost allow that? Will he be able to endure knowing another man will touch me and love me?"

He knew what she was doing. Using jealousy to her advantage and triggering his temper. To consider her with another man…, he tightened his grip on her with the thought.

Without a single glance over her shoulder, she pushed, "If you don't want me, I cannot spend the rest of my life alone, Erik."

"Don't want you," he taunted and pushed his hips firm against her, the hardness of his erection digging into her back. "You know I want you. You've known it since the instant I embraced you. My body gave me away. So toy with me, Christine. Manipulate desire into your favor."

"I don't want only desire; I want _love_," she replied. "You used desire to speak love when your lips could not once before."

He conceded her point. "If I had spoken love, what would you have said in response, _ange_? The moment I took you through your mirror, I loved. I've _always_ loved, but I settled for desire."

"And if I offer both?" she proposed, a gasp choking sound as she writhed against him. "Desire isn't enough; it's never been enough."

He was inclined to argue as she shifted her hips and lost a necessary cry, but love was the core. Always beneath everything, love had been the core. "And what will our future be? My version involved locks and was a sin. Tell me how I should love you, Christine."

"As freely as I love you. You loved me with _your heart_ locked behind a locked door and clasped my own tight enough to stop its beat. Love dies if you suffocate it to keep it."

Rubbing his cheek to her curls, he bid with the touch of a smile, "When did you become so strong, _petite_?"

"You left me," she reminded, and he heard the lingering sting of hurt. "If I am not strong, then I lose you again, and I can't bear it. Erik, promise you won't leave me."

His arms loosened only to guide her about, and in blue depths, he saw every emotion unguarded and blatant. With a sense of awe he could not fathom, she lifted one hand and took his mask, uncovering his face as if it were a coveted treasure.

"That gentleman admiring you on the stage was perfection," he felt compelled to remind.

"His desire disgusted me," she insisted back with a cringe that became a grin. "But had _you_ been the one watching and desiring me, I would have melted and fallen into your arms."

"Indeed?" He let his fingertips graze the low neckline of her rehearsal attire and delighted in her shiver. Up flawless skin and the smooth column of her throat, and catching her cheeks in his palms, he revealed with full heart and soul, "I love you. I was just as dead without you. Promise _me_ that _you_ won't leave." Her command presented back to her; he preferred making it _her_ vow instead. She was the one between them with the world spread before her, and in his regard, she was the one making the sacrifice.

"Never," she sincerely replied and trailed caresses to his scars. He closed his eyes and savored every brush of skin. It felt like life flowed back into him with her inherent magic to grant it, and he turned to kiss those sweet fingers.

One instant of indulgence, and with desire in his stare, he knelt on the floor at her feet, worshipping her as if she truly was the angel he'd always imagined her to be. And yet would he be condemned for desiring an angel this much? He suddenly thanked God that his Christine was a flesh and blood, mortal woman and not a heavenly being beyond his reach!

His gaze devoured, lingering over the sculpted curves of her exposed calves and ankles, fighting the urge to recall a shameless patron and his similar study. No, she had chosen, and she didn't want perfection.

Guiding a soft caress up her legs, he lifted crinoline from his path and hissed to uncover a splattering of bruises, so starkly purple upon her creamy skin. With a curse murmured beneath his breath, he ran his hands along the marks as if his touch could erase them from sight.

"Bruises fade," she insisted in a whisper, trembling against his palms, "but you left a gaping wound in my heart that wouldn't quit bleeding."

"I know," he replied and leant close to brush his lips to one thigh, breathing against her skin, "I'm sorry."

Erik had shown her love through desire's eyes; now he showed her desire through love's eyes. It made every movement have meaning, and as he undressed her, he cherished every inch of skin revealed. She was his gift, his blessing, and he was desperate that she know his adoration.

Bodies met and fused, every legato motion connected from soul to soul. Arms weaved, legs entwined until there was no distinction where one ended and the next began. One. One heart, one being. Her body wore bruises; his wore scars, and yet together, they were their own perfection.

Pleasure did not mean an ending. Christine felt its wave, and yet the subtle ebb and flow of desire went on. All that mattered was Erik, his body atop hers, burrowing her into her chaise, his hardness deep within, his disfigured cheek against her flawless one as if sealing scars and wiping them away. They melted between layers of flesh and didn't matter anymore.

"Christine," he breathed against her ear, and she clutched his bare, damaged body tighter to her own, smoothing away more scars with every flush inch. "Do you love me? Say it again. Say you're mine, and never let me go."

"I love you," she whispered back. "I'm _yours_, Erik. Don't leave me, and don't doubt me. Love me back."

"I love you. How could I leave you! I love you!"

Christine savored the sound. She knew that her battle wasn't over, that he'd still doubt and hesitate to be vulnerable, that love was a challenge and not a predestined path. But she also believed him when he vowed not to leave her. Even apart, he'd never truly let her go. She was as much his heart as he was hers.

"I want to sleep with you in my arms," he beseeched amidst random kisses to any spot he could find. "Will you come home with me?"

"Ah, a choice," she declared with the tinge of a smile. "Yes, by my own choice, I will come home with you, but I must be back to rehearsal in the morning."

He cringed. "The ballet."

"The chorus," she corrected. "I had an open door to return whenever I wanted, and I suddenly feel like singing again. The ballerinas will _not_ be at a loss without me."

"_I_ will feel the loss," he corrected. "I delight in watching you dance, not as much as singing center stage, of course, but you are so lovely, Christine, so desirable…" His lips lingered in a kiss against her ear, and as his tongue barely grazed her lobe, she shivered and cuddled closer to him. "So I am to play the gentleman. No more locks or commands. I will not force you, but I'm a jealous man. It won't be easy to let you exist in this world, but…I will do my best. Does that please you?"

She nodded. "But if I tempt you to lock us below for days at a time and abandon the world, will you indulge me?"

"Anything you wish! _Your_ choice, Christine."

It was a wonderful start, and she pressed grateful kisses to his face and reveled in the sensation of being complete.

Her love story began with an angel and a dream, and even as reality creased the corners and crept in shadows, the heart remained the same. It was a fairytale; love had taken a monster and transformed him into a man. He was no longer phantom or Opera Ghost. He was Erik, a fallible, mortal man with flaws and sins and without a perfection to claim as his, and yet she loved him more because of it.

Leaning close to graze kisses to his scarred face, she poured love along damage and made something far more wondrous than the world could hold. For every dark crevice, she bestowed the light, stripping it down to bone and soul and reconstructing a vision worthy of adoration. Love gave its own eyes that couldn't be concealed by blindfolds and fear. Opening those eyes, she truly _saw_, …and he was beautiful.


End file.
